


Lancing Blow

by Psychoctopus



Series: Lancing Through Life [1]
Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Romance, This pairing was begging to be written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psychoctopus/pseuds/Psychoctopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A death without honor has put a damper on Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's second chance at life. After simply going through the motions for ten years, everything changes when another Irish hero arrives to show him his true worth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallen Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! It's been a while since we've posted anything, but we've made it our personal vendetta to get more out there this year! We've been working on this one for quite some time now, and it's going to be long, but we're going to split it into its different parts in a series of . . . well, series! So look out for updates! As always, feel free to comment! Without further ado, enjoy this glorious pairing! :) Also, we are very sorry for all the terrible puns that are to come. (Not sorry ;3)

The emerald isle is full of magic and legends, and no matter how many years pass, it never lets go of its heroes. When the Irish knight, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, was killed without honor in the name of a twisted game, his spirit was found by his motherland and sustained by its reserves of old magic until he was able to materialize permanently in his ancient home. Unlike his former life, in which he made contact with a great deal of people on a day to day basis (he WAS a renowned lover after all), Diarmuid now chose to lead a solitary existence. Shortly after his revival, he built himself a small cottage on the outskirts of a backwater town and hardly came out of it, with the exception being a trip to the nearest market or pub when needed. Having lost faith in the honor of humanity, he could no longer summon his weapons, and a lancer without his lances is just an unemployed man with an oddly specific set of skills. While he kept going through the motions, no longer did he have the fire or the passion of a knight. Before he knew it, ten years had passed in the blink of an eye, with one year indistinguishable from the last.

* * * * *

Across the world, the same competition that had destroyed him had started up again, once more spreading death and destruction. For the second time in a row, another Irish legend fell prey to an uncaring master and the island once more gratefully welcomed him home. However, unlike his fallen comrade, Cú Chulainn had accepted his own demise and remained faithful in to his own abilities. Upon returning to his homeland, the Hound of Ulster went on a voyage, intent on traveling across his entire beloved country and discovering what had come of it since his parting. As he traveled, he wandered through many small towns, taking in the sights and learning the details of modern life and culture. 

On one particular evening, while traveling through a quaint, rustic village, Cú Chulainn happened to stop by a pub for a pint or two. As he walked in, he felt a sensation he hadn't felt since he left the fight early: the unmistakable feeling of another servant nearby. Instantly, Cú Chulainn zeroed in on an impossibly gorgeous, tall man sitting alone at the bar. He had a certain aura about him, like something that was once powerful, but was now decaying. Despite the fact that the man's smile was faded, he had the attention of every girl (as well as some of the men) in the pub. On the rare occasions when he lifted his head from his drink and looked around, any woman he met eyes with would blush and look away. 

However, Cú Chulainn was certainly no smitten maiden, and, being the bold individual that he was, the Hound walked right over to the man and sat down next to him. After ordering a drink, he turned to the stranger and offered him a hand. "Yo."

The man showed as little interest in Cú Chulainn as he did in the rest of his surroundings, but momentarily shook hands. "Hi."

Cú Chulainn leaned in and got straight to the point, as he is wont to do. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're a heroic spirit, no?"

The man laughed bitterly, "Was."

"'Was'?"

With a sad smile that probably caused a couple of swoons elsewhere in the pub, the man spoke, "Do I look as though I have a hero’s spirit anymore?"

Cú Chulainn took a long sip from his oversized mug, which undoubtedly contained something strong and potent, as he spared a glance at the mole right underneath the man’s right eye. "You wouldn't happen to be Diarmuid of the Lovespot would you?"

"I wonder what could have possibly tipped you off," the man replied, a bit scathingly. 

Cú Chulainn flinched at the amount of sass thrown his way, but quickly recovered. "Then I, Cú Chulainn, Hound of Ulster, challenge you to an honorable duel!"

Diarmuid looked at Cú Chulainn with bleary eyes. "I cannot turn down an honorable duel, but I find no honor in this world." He added in a low voice, "Besides, it'd be rather one sided . . ."

Cú Chulainn blinked a few times before responding. "You're one of the most renowned of the Knights of the Fianna. How could a fight with such a warrior be one sided?"

"I lost my weapons when I lost my honor."

"You can no longer summon your spears?" the Hound asked incredulously. 

"Not since ten years ago."

"Have you attempted to recover them? If you were reincarnated, as I was, perhaps your weapons have returned to their place of origin? Or the last location where they took physical form?"

Diarmuid's interest seemed piqued for the first time. "If only I knew where that was, perhaps I wouldn’t be here, attempting to get drunk off my arse."

"I myself have been traveling all over Ireland for the past few months and I'm fairly certain I've heard mention of the famed Diarmuid Ua Duibhne a few times."

As Cú Chulainn spoke, something inside Diarmuid started to heal, and for the first time in a long time, he had hope. "Do you have an idea where I could start looking?"

"You could always start looking in that place where they keep all the books," the Hound proposed, clearly still not familiar with the intricacies of the modern world. 

"The library, of course!" 

Cú Chulainn grinned widely and chugged the rest of his drink in one go. "Yeah, that!" 

Diarmuid stood up. "I’d better go home now, I want to be at the library as soon as it opens tomorrow morning!" He left some money on the bar and headed toward the door, then turned and bowed slightly to Cú Chulainn. "Thank you, sir. You have reminded me of the code of honor which I have been neglecting in my grief."

"No problem!" Cú Chulainn exclaimed as he flashed another toothy grin. As Diarmuid left the building, the Hound of Ulster ordered another round, smirking all the while.

* * * * *

Diarmuid walked home slowly, enjoying the cool night air. When he reached his cottage, though, he found that the lights were already on and that there was music blaring from within. As Diarmuid began ascending the first steps of the porch, Cú Chulainn, dressed in a plain pair of jeans and a shirt that read "Fight me, I'm Irish!" threw open the front door. "Yo!"

Diarmuid looked puzzled. "If you wished the hospitality of my home, you had only need to ask."

"Well then! Grace me with your hospitality, my fellow Irish countryman!" Cú Chulainn exclaimed, clearly no longer entirely sober. 

The night air had cleared Diarmuid's head fairly well, and his excitement for the next day's search kept him from getting upset that a strange man had infiltrated his house. "You're welcome to my home. Anything you need is yours. You have returned the hope that my honor may be restored, and I cannot repay that easily."

"Hey, no worries! I can't just let you sit around and mope when you could be out there fighting courageously!"

Diarmuid smiled a true smile for the first time, the kind of smile that would usually cause just about anyone, female or male, to fall in love on the spot. "I will do my best to live up to this goal, and by this time next year, we will have our duel!"

Cú Chulainn merely laughed, the magic of Diarmuid's lovespot rolling right off of him like water off a duck's back. "I look forward to it!"

Diarmuid was slightly confused at the lack of response, but was unconcerned. It was enough that this man would willingly help him; he didn't need the man to be madly in love with him too. 

"You wouldn't happen to have any spirits would you?" Cú Chulainn inquired as he flopped down on the couch.

"Of course I do," Diarmuid said, walking over to a well-stocked liquor cabinet. "What would you like?"

"An Irish Crème." Cú Chulainn paused, presumably to check his own level of sobriety. "Wait, make that two."

Diarmuid poured the drinks and handed them to Cú Chulainn. "If you need anything, I'll be in my room." Diarmuid walked into a plain room with very little decorations and began doing his nightly exercises. As always, he performed them listlessly, going through the motions more for the sake of losing himself for a while as opposed to maintaining his physique. Meanwhile, Cú Chulainn proceeded to get hammered, thoroughly enjoying the high quality of the alcohol over the pub’s mediocre swill. Sometime deep into the night, the Hound drifted off into unconsciousness, old memories and thoughts of battle fresh in his mind.

* * * * *

Sometime in the morning, Cú Chulainn awoke to light streaming in through the windows, along with the unmistakable smell of bacon sizzling in a pan. Diarmuid was in the kitchen, throwing together a hearty breakfast with whatever he could find. "How hungover are you?"

Cú Chulainn sat up and groaned. "I've been worse."

Diarmuid chuckled slightly and handed Cú Chulainn a large mug. "Here, some coffee should help." 

"Many thanks," Cú Chulainn sighed as he took the mug in his calloused hands. 

Diarmuid seemed to be in a hurry to get going, cooking with a certain unrestrained frenzy. "Will you be going to the library with me?"

Cú Chulainn got up shakily and made his way on over to the kitchen. "Of course," he stated simply as he leaned over Diarmuid to steal a slice of bacon straight from the pan. 

"Great! We can go once we've finished breakfast!"

After the two had wolfed down said breakfast and Diarmuid had scrubbed the dishes clean, they headed on over to the local library, which was just opening for the day. Diarmuid immediately went to the folklore section to find any reference he could to himself. On the other hand, Cú Chulainn had sprawled himself on top of a table, a book on advancing fishing methods in hand.

Diarmuid read through numerous books, finding only small references to himself here and there. Cú Chulainn glanced over, earrings clattering against the table as he did so. "Find anything useful yet?"

"Just that none of these people have any idea as to what my story actually was."

"That's a shame . . . If it's any consolation, many of the things I've read about myself were entirely incorrect. Not to mention the illustrations. Gods, you’d think they’d be able to nail the blue hair on the first go, but no, it’s depicted as every color BUT blue!"

"I suppose these weavers of stories do not have the skill to capture a true warrior’s spirit on paper," Diarmuid smiled. "At least that's what I'll keep telling myself."

"So what do you wanna do now? If the books won't tell us anything useful, perhaps we should talk to locals? See what kind of information and tales have been passed down to them through the generations?"

"Perhaps. They know me, though, so they would question why I am suddenly bringing up random folktales."

Cú Chulainn paused for a few seconds, clearly contemplating something. Finally, he broke the silence, smiling mischievously as he did so. "You into traveling?"

"I traveled with the Fianna, but not since then."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go out on a noble quest!" Cú Chulainn exclaimed excitedly.

Diarmuid was a bit less easily convinced. "If you are sure that's the best way to go about it."

"You got any other ideas?" Cú Chulainn questioned, eyebrow raised in amusement. "Besides, you need to get out more often. Explore a bit. Go on a few adventures."

"I suppose," Diarmuid said, closing the book he had been skimming before the Hound had initiated their current conversation. "I'll have to get some stuff together. How are we going to travel?"

"Well, I have a car, but we'll probably have to do some hiking to get to the more remote villages."

Diarmuid jumped to his feet, "Walking is no problem! I have been keeping in shape despite being a hermit! I haven't been in cars much, but I don't think it should be a problem."

"Personally, I love these motorized vehicles! They're so much more comfortable than riding horseback!"

"I was more of a foot soldier, so I've never ridden anything very much," Diarmuid stated, completely missing the entendre that he would have capitalized on had he been his former self.

Cú Chulainn sat up, earning the glare of the librarian, who just now noticed that he was relaxing on top of the table. "Well, whenever you're ready, we can head out."

"Let's just stop by my house really briefly and then we can get going!"

"Wonderful!" the Hound beamed, slamming his book close and hopping off of the table.

After placing the books back in their rightful places, the duo returned to Diarmuid's place. While Diarmuid packed, Cú Chulainn hastily attempted to clean his car, which was full of his personal belongings, the basic necessities, and several bags of groceries. Diarmuid grabbed a small travel bag and watered his garden for good measure, then walked out to the car. Cú Chulainn was still busy cleaning by the time Diarmuid slid into the passenger seat. "Sorry about the mess. I've never been a big fan of housecleaning. Or in this case, carcleaning."

Diarmuid looked around the car, "This isn't so bad. My house would be at least twice this messy if I hadn't had so much time on my hands."

After chucking a pile of laundry into the trunk, the Hound made his way into the driver’s seat and put the keys into the ignition. "So, where to first?"

"We could try some of the towns around Belfast. That's not too far from here."

"Sounds like a plan!" Cú Chulainn exclaimed as he took off. Turns out that the Hound of Ulster likes to drive fast, very fast. 30 miles above the speed limit fast. Diarmuid had never gone so fast in his life, but he found the adrenaline rush exhilarating and thoroughly enjoyed watching the countryside zip by. Eventually, it began to get dark outside, the surrounding scenery disappearing into the blackness of the night. With many of the roads' only light source being that provided by the moon, the Hound decided that they should stop and find refuge for the evening. "What would you like to do? We can either sleep in the car or try to find a hotel."

"We can look for a hotel and if nothing turns up, I can sleep just about anywhere," Diarmuid yawned, stretching out in his seat as much as was physically possible in the confined space. 

"Sounds good!" the Ulster warrior stated, slamming on the gas once more and speeding off towards the nearest rest stop.


	2. Commencing the Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their search begins, the two Irish knights try following the paper trail back to Diarmuid's weapon. Additionally, shenanigans involving combat and a bridal suite ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All words and/or phrases with the asterisk next to it can be referred to in the end notes.

Fortunately, the two managed to find a hotel, albeit a small one. Unfortunately, all but one room was booked, with said last room containing only one bed. Regardless, the Hound threw down the required money, sliding their room key in his pocket. "I can sleep out in the car if you want to take the bed. I'm used to it by now," Cú Chulainn stated, twirling his car keys on one of his fingers. 

"No, as I said, I could sleep anywhere. It would be unchivalrous to allow another knight to sleep outside while I rested comfortably in a bed." 

"Fine. But only if you can beat me in a duel. No weapons, only good ‘ol fashioned hand to hand combat. Sound fair?"

"Fair enough, but let's get far enough off the road that we don't attract attention and get arrested."

"You got it," the Hound smirked, his competitive side starting to shine through. 

Hurrying out of the hotel, they trekked into the wilderness to search for a suitable location. Once they reached a wide clearing surrounded by a dense thicket, Diarmuid stopped. "Is here satisfactory?"

"Yup," Cú Chulainn said as he flashed his signature toothy grin once more. "Ready?"

"Let's do this!"

Too eager to do a bit of investigating into his opponent’s fighting style, Cú Chulainn got right to it, rushing at Diarmuid with a speed that rivaled even his own. Diarmuid dodged gracefully to the side and reached out in a grappling maneuver, but Cú Chulainn must have saw the move coming a mile away, for he stepped to the side and aimed a fist directly at Diarmuid's face. The ex-knight ducked so that he could get under his arm and aim a body blow. Like before, the Hound evaded the attack, leaving them grappling and struggling to land any solid blows. Even after a full hour, neither had gained any ground, so they instead split up and began circling each other. On the defensive, Diarmuid continued to move around a lot, making himself hard to target. Not discouraged in the slightest, Cú Chulainn continued his onslaught, both of them fighting until they were exhausted.

"You're . . . not . . . too . . . bad," Cú Chulainn gasped as he still struggled to gain the upper hand.

Equally out of breath, Diarmuid, struggled to get out, "You're . . . not . . . bad . . . yourself . . ."

With the last of his remaining sliver of his energy, Cú Chulainn lunged at Diarmuid and attempted to lock him in a choke hold. Fortunately, Diarmuid caught his arms and held him away, shaking with the effort of keeping him at bay. Eventually, they both collapsed, conveniently at the exact same time. "It looks . . . like . . . we had . . . better find . . . a . . . compromise . . ." Diarmuid panted, his entire body covered in a light sheen of sweat.

"First one back gets to decide!" Cú Chulainn exclaimed before he took off in the direction of the hotel, a fresh, new wave of energy surging though his veins.

Diarmuid sprinted after him, accelerating along the path as he let the adrenaline and the rush of the battlefield sweep him away. As they approached the entrance of the hotel, they were neck and neck. As they both reached out at the same time, their fingertips just barely brushing against the rusted metal handles, the door swung open, revealing a very confused night manager. "Um . . . Can I help you two? Did you guys get lost on the way to your room or something?"

Still panting somewhat, they both apologized for their rambunctious behavior and headed up to their designated room, too tired to argue about sleeping arrangements any further. As they stumbled in, Diarmuid examined the fancy decor, the large single bed, and the separate lounge. "Did you rent the fecking bridal suite?"

Failing quite miserably to hold in his laughter, Cú Chulainn gestured to the bed and said, "Well, at least it's big enough for the both of us."

"I suppose so, and we got some hearty sparring in."

Too exhausted to form a response, Cú Chulainn threw off his shirt and climbed into bed. Sighing quietly, Diarmuid took his bag into the bathroom to change into his pajamas, which included a thin t-shirt and soft sweatpants. He then climbed to on the other side of the bed and lay down on top of the comforter. Cú Chulainn was already lightly snoring by the time Diarmuid began to doze off, an infinitesimally small blush forming on his cheeks as the Hound’s abnormally high level of body heat warmed the ex-knight.

* * * * *

By six the next morning, Diarmuid was up and moving, sore and stiff from the exertion the previous day. On the other hand, the Hound of Ulster, apparently in the mood to be quite the lazy dog, was still asleep, thoroughly wrapped up in the sheets. Diarmuid saw how peacefully he was sleeping and decided not to disturb him. Instead, he went on down to the breakfast bar to get some food for both of them. By the time Diarmuid was back, Cú Chulainn was at least sitting up, sleepily rubbing his eyes. "Yo."

The ex-knight looked down at Cú Chulainn, his eyes doing a bit of wandering before he spoke, "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Mm . . . Just give me what you're having. I'm fine with pretty much anything," the Hound yawned, lethargically sliding his shirt back on.

Smiling playfully, Diarmuid tossed a bagel, a small bowl of fruit salad, a few sausage links, a banana, an entire grapefruit, a mini cereal box, a relatively large slice of coffee cake, and a whole pineapple in the bed in front of Cú Chulainn.

"Thanks for the breakfast in bed, bhean chéile*," Cú Chulainn teased as he started to make a sandwich out of all the ingredients. 

Diarmuid laughed, "So you wish."

Cú Chulainn smirked and bit into his bagel-fruit salad-sausage-banana-grapefruit-cereal-coffee cake sandwich (the pineapple was not included due to the fact that Cú Chulainn had no fecking idea how to properly open the damn thing). Diarmuid merely shook his head at Cú Chulainn's seemingly absent taste buds and went to get dressed.

* * * * *

After "breakfast", Cú Chulainn went down to his car, grabbed a few relatively clean clothes and headed back up to their room to get dressed as well. As the Hound closed the door behind him, he found Diarmuid lounging on the couch, aimlessly flipping through the channels on the television. "Let me go take a shower and get dressed and then we'll head on out, yeah?" the Hound stated, shucking off his jacket and draping it onto the nearest chair. 

"Sure, do whatever you need. We have no time sensitive plans,” Diarmuid said monotonously, eyes fixated on the ridiculous commercials that were endlessly playing out on the screen, one right after the other.

"Wonderful! I'll be right out, so don't go anywhere," the Hound chuckled, heading into the bathroom.

Around twenty minutes later, Cú Chulainn, dressed from the waist down, hair flowing freely over his shoulders, opened the door and held up a hairdryer. "What in the name of Annwn* is this contraption?"

"It is for drying out your hair if you don't want it to air dry. Just plug it in and press the button on the side."

"Thanks!" Cú Chulainn said as he shut the door once more. A few seconds later, the whirring sound of the hairdryer and a muffled "Cool!" was heard from within the bathroom. Diarmuid smirked at the black and white movie that was currently playing on the screen, a tinge of amusement evident on his face for a few split seconds. A few minutes later, Cú Chulainn exited the bathroom fully clothed, still working on tying up his hair. "Ready?"

"If you are. I've already thrown my stuff on the pile in your car."

"Great! Let's head on out then!" 

* * * * *

As Cú Chulainn returned the keys to their room, the manager working the front desk smiled and said, "I know that some people may frown upon it, but I think that you two are positively adorable."

Diarmuid, who was sitting out in the car, was baffled when Cú Chulainn slid into the driver’s seat and promptly burst into laughter. "I miss something?"

Wiping away tears, Cú Chulainn started up the car. "No, no, it's nothing."

Shrugging, Diarmuid leaned back, intent on relaxing and enjoying the ride. By the time they reached their destination, a quiet village out in the middle of nowhere, it was around noon. "So what's the plan? Do you want to go door to door and ask around?" the Hound inquired.

"We could . . . How about we start in the library first and ask who might know the old stories?"

"Sounds like a good place to start," Cú Chulainn affirmed as they made their way into town on foot (since there was no main road large enough for the car to pass through). When they entered, they found the library desk to be unmanned, so they were forced to search the entire place shelf by shelf for any sign of the librarian. Eventually, they stumbled upon an old man who, while not being the librarian, had a great many tales to tell about Ireland’s history and the Fenian Cycle*. 

Surprisingly, Diarmuid found the old man's version of his life to be fairly accurate, so he paid close attention to what the man had to say about his death and burial. Cú Chulainn even contributed to the effort, writing down notes on the information given in case it would prove useful later (although taking notes in the books was probably not the wisest of ideas). Diarmuid noticed with interest that he had been buried with all his possessions, despite his dishonor in the eyes of the Fianna. "If I can find my grave," he thought, "I should be able to find my lances." 

After finishing their conversation with the old man, the two left the library in good spirits. Cú Chulainn slapped Diarmuid on the back, smiling widely, "Now we're making some progress!"

"We just need to figure out, if I were me, where would I bury myself?"

" . . . Aren't you supposed to know the answer to that?" the Hound asked, eyebrow raised. 

"How am I supposed to know? I was kind of dead at the time."

"I suppose that's true . . . Well, what do you wish to do with the rest of the day? I mean, since we took all that time to get over here, we should probably enjoy ourselves for a bit, yeah?"

For once, Diarmuid's single minded focus relaxed and he agreed that some entertainment would be worthwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bhean chéile = Irish for "wife"  
> *Annwn = Celtic equivalent of paradise or Heaven. Since there is no Celtic equivalent of Hell (at least according to our limited knowledge of Celtic mythology), we decided to stick with Annwn  
> *Fenian Cycle = Collection of stories involving the exploits of Finn and his Knights of the Fianna
> 
> Since neither of us are qualified to be master of neither the Irish language nor its culture, feel free to comment if you know more or have more accurate information! :)


	3. In Which the Seducer Becomes the Seducee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two heroes continue their quest, taking a temporary hiatus to explore the countryside, which leads to unforeseen consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As normal, see the end notes for any clarification regarding words/phrases marked with an asterisk. Also, in reference to the next chapter, it should be up sometime tomorrow, so keep an eye out for it! We're both busy college students, but we promise to update whenever we can, so have patience with us! Like always, feel free to comment! We look forward to hearing from you!

After grabbing a quick bite to eat and a pint of ale (the latter had been Cú Chulainn's idea), the duo headed into the nearby woods to do some leisurely hiking. Cú Chulainn had sworn that being out in the Irish wilderness would help soothe Diarmuid's troubles, and honestly, he was quite right. Having not left his town in ten years, every new change of scenery was novel and exciting to Diarmuid, each building his sense that he was truly rediscovering his homeland. Eventually, after an hour or so of wondering about, they came upon a clearing and Cú Chulainn insisted that they sit down and share a drink. "You brought some with you?" the ex-knight inquired, stretching out on the soft, slightly damp grass beneath him.

The Hound smirked. "Always do. You never know when you might need some."

"All too true." 

Cú Chulainn sat down, pulled out a small flask from within his coat pocket, opened it, and raised it heavenward. "In celebration of making progress."

Once he had a swig, he passed it to Diarmuid, who echoed his toast and had a drink of his own. Together, they finished off the entire container rather quickly, a faint crimson tinge appearing on the Hound’s cheeks as the warm sensation of being buzzed washed over him. Diarmuid, on the other hand, was more concerned with the faint reddish tinge in the sky. "The sun's setting . . . Soon it'll be too dark for us to find our way back."

"Not a big fan of sleeping out in the wild?"

"It's been a few centuries since I've had to." 

"Well, I don’t know about you, but I find it quite soothi-" Cú Chulainn froze as the unmistakable caw of a crow echoed from somewhere within the surrounding trees. "But perhaps we shouldn't leave the car unattended for so long . . .*"

Sensing the sudden change in mood, Diarmuid tensed. "What's wrong?"

Cú Chulainn smiled nervously and hopped to his feet, pulling his jacket closer to him as he did so. "Nothing."

"You sure? If we head back now, we might make it before nightfall."

"On second thought, a nice, warm hotel room sounds good," Cú Chulainn said quickly, eyes darting about to sweep over the surrounding thicket. 

However, neither of them had left any markers or taken note of any of the paths, so they were soon entirely lost. As they both took a minute to catch their breath, Cú Chulainn sighed and turned towards Diarmuid. "I'm sorry. It's my fault that we're lost. This was my idea in the first place." 

"Let's not worry about things that are too late to change. Instead, we should get a fire started and settle down for the night."

Combining their efforts, the duo gathered enough wood for a fire so that they could have some warmth. Neither had the energy to go hunting, so they decided to just settle in for the night and eat once they got back to civilization the next morning. Cú Chulainn fell asleep almost immediately, but Diarmuid found, for the first time since he had started sleeping next to the Hound in hotels, that he couldn't get to sleep. Instead, he found himself missing the warmth of lying near Cú Chulainn. This man had saved him from his self-imposed prison, but had gone even further, becoming a companion whose humor, energy, and dedication made every moment spent with him a joy. Diarmuid found himself thinking that here was a man that he would gladly pledge eternal loyalty (or even more) to. Just as he began praying fervently to any higher power who would be willing to listen to his pleas for a break in his luck, a loud crack ripped through the sky and it began to pour. The deluge instantly put out their fire and drenched them to the bone. The rainstorm was even enough to awaken Cú Chulainn, and Diarmuid, taking the opportunity, suggested (more shyly than he normally would) that they huddle together for warmth. 

Even in the dim lighting, Diarmuid was fairly certain that he saw the Hound of Ulster blush ever so faintly. Regardless, after taking refuge under a tree, Cú Chulainn sat down and motioned for Diarmuid to join him. The ex-knight did as instructed, slowly sliding into the Hound’s lap, his face seeking protection from the icy night air in the crook of Cú Chulainn’s neck. Mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “you’re hot enough already”, the Hound shifted him so that they both could be covered by his heavy coat. Diarmuid was glad that at that particular angle, Cú Chulainn couldn’t see his burning blush. Grateful for the extra heat (and perhaps the proximity as well), they soon fell asleep leaning on one other.

* * * * *

As the sun rose, Diarmuid found himself held within the tight embrace of Cú Chulainn, who had managed to wrap himself around Diarmuid sometime within the night. Carefully extricating himself so as not to disturb Cú Chulainn, the ex-knight looked fondly at the Hound of Ulster's sleeping face. As if he was somehow unconsciously aware of Diarmuid’s eyes upon him, Cú Chulainn stirred, sniffling and sneezing several times before acknowledging the other man. "Yo."

Instantly, Diarmuid spun around and pretended to be navigating by the sun. "Good morning."

Cú Chulainn slowly rose to his feet, brushed himself off, and began making his way over to his fellow countryman. Before Diarmuid, who was becoming increasingly aware of the other man’s proximity (by gods did he have a way of slowly driving him mad), could get in another word edge wise, Cú Chulainn leaned in close. The ex-knight began shaking nervously, his mind wandering in a thousand different directions all at once (and none of them entirely innocent in nature), until Cú Chulainn reached out and pulled some leaves out of his hair, "It looks as if an entire tree has decided to sprout from your head." 

Cú Chulainn blinked several times as Diarmuid quickly turned away, his lips pursed in what appeared to be thought. "Are you alright?"

"Fine . . . Just fine . . . We should probably get going if we ever want to get out of this forest," Diarmuid muttered, willing the developing blush on his face to fade. 

Not quite sure of what he did wrong, Cú Chulainn just shrugged and began leading the trek back to what he hoped was civilization, "Sounds fine by me."

Diarmuid walked in silence, absorbed in his thoughts. Mostly, he cursed the fate that made it so his lovespot worked on everyone except the one person he actually pined for. It seemed that if he wanted Cú Chulainn's attention, he would have to work for it . . . something he had never had to do before he met this devastatingly charming, yet infuriatingly oblivious man.

After he had vented a majority of his anger and frustration (silently of course), Diarmuid began pondering the vast labyrinth of feelings that Cú Chulainn had brought about in him, falling back on an old poem he had memorized by heart. 

"Dear thoughts are in my mind . . .*"

Meanwhile, Cú Chulainn was busy distracting himself from the silence that had fallen over the two of them by pondering the possible outcomes of his future duel with Diarmuid. "He's extremely agile, that’s for sure. More so than even me, which is saying something. However, I wonder how vast his reserves of stamina are . . ."

"And my soul soars enchanted . . ."

"Speaking of stamina, I wonder how much a renowned lover such as him has on other places besides just that of the battlefield . . ."

"As I hear the sweet lark sing . . ."

"I suppose it’d be quite interesting to find out . . . Wait, no! I shouldn't be thinking of a fellow knight like that! Nix that, of a fellow man in such a manner!"

"In the clear air of the day."

"But . . . I have to admit . . . He is pretty damn fine . . . So much so that if given the chance, I just might- No, no, no! Come on, Cú Chulainn, think of something else! Anything else but . . . that!"

"For a tender beaming smile . . ."

"Now that I think about it, he's probably had more lays than I've had battles. Which is damn impressive."

"To my hope has been granted . . ."

"I suppose that's why I'm so curious as to what it'd be like to get him into b- Nope! Moving right along!"

Diarmuid stumbled over the next lines, not because his memory failed him, but because his emotions were beginning to get the better of him. "And tomorrow he will hear . . . A-all my fond heart . . . would say . . . Yeah, right . . ."

While Diarmuid’s mind wandered through the happy dream of the rest of the poem, Cú Chulainn found himself unable to stop fixating on the unwanted, yet tenacious curiosity about his traveling companion’s famed abilities. Just as Diarmuid finished the last line, Cú Chulainn couldn’t restrain himself and blurted out, “Stop thinking about it!”

Diarmuid instinctively panicked, jumping to the conclusion that Cú Chulainn had somehow read his mind and was displeased with Diarmuid’s overwhelming attraction to him. In an attempt to cover for himself, he yelled back, “It’s just a poem! It has nothing to do with you!”

He instantly realized his gaffe when Cú Chulainn looked at him in confusion, saying, “What are you talking about? I was referring to my own thoughts about layi- Nothing!"

“Wait, what?” Diarmuid tried to put the pieces of their two different thought paths together, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted slightly to one side.

“It’s nothing! Forget I said anything!” the Hound insisted, clearly flustered. 

Cú Chulainn’s embarrassment and refusal to explain himself led Diarmuid to believe that the Hound had been thinking something impolite and hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings. As a result, they spent the rest of their walk making awkward small talk to avoid focusing on their own thoughts.

* * * * *

By the time the duo finally made it back to civilization, they were too tired to travel on, so they found another hotel which 'fortunately' had a room with two beds available. As soon as they entered their designated quarters, Cú Chulainn threw himself down on the bed, still partially-damp clothes and all, burying himself underneath as many layers as possible.

Diarmuid, who had been glaring at his own bed like it was the root of all his problems, momentarily got out of his funk enough to be concerned. "What's wrong?"

"That bedeviled creature must have placed a curse upon me. I feel weak," Cú Chulainn mumbled, pulling the blankets even closer to his body. 

"Creature? You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours, that's why you're weak."

In response, Cú Chulainn merely buried his face in the pillows and allowed his eyes to flutter close. Unsure of what to do, Diarmuid absentmindedly flipped through the year-old magazines that littered the room’s coffee table. "I was going to suggest we go out to get some food, but I suppose I’d better just get something I can bring back."

"That'd be wonderful, stór*," Cú Chulainn muttered softly, his consciousness perched precariously on the edge of cognizance and oblivion.

Diarmuid blushed softly, but figured Cú Chulainn was just teasing as always, so he stood, dismissed himself, and headed out on a quest for edibles.

* * * * *

Due to a holiday that Diarmuid was sure they hadn’t had back in his own time, finding a place that actually served food and was open proved to be quite the challenge. By the time Diarmuid returned, hearty bowls of soup in hand, he found the room’s single stereo turned up to full blast, the Hound nowhere to be seen. Shaking his head at his companion’s lack of ability to clean up after himself, the ex-knight crossed towards the bathroom to wash the grease from the bags off of his hands. Not hearing the running water over the tune of some annoyingly cheery pop song, he opened the door and was treated to a full view of Cú Chulainn lathering up. Not even attempting to cover himself, the Hound flashed his signature toothy grin. "There you are! You took so long, I thought that you'd left me here to fend for myself! What did you get for dinner?"

Rooted to his spot, Diarmuid stood gaping, unable to tear his eyes away or even blink. "Just . . . some . . . food . . . so sorry," he finally managed, darting out of the room and slamming the door behind him. 

After finishing his shower, the Hound dressed and quickly blow dried his hair, then casually sat down at the table as if nothing particularly out of the ordinary had happened. On the other hand, Diarmuid, who refused to make any form of eye contact whatsoever, stirred his soup without an hint of interest whatsoever. 

"Not any good?" the Hound inquired, simultaneously bringing a spoonful of his own soup up to his lips. 

"It's . . . fine . . . Just fine," Diarmuid mumbled, picking up the next mouthful only to watch it drip back into the bowl.

"Then what's wrong?"

Diarmuid flushed entirely, a striking effect that had even the Hound somewhat flustered, albeit only for a few brief moments. "I . . . am so sorry . . . for walking in on you . . ."

"There’s no need to apologize! It's not the end of the world!" Cú Chulainn insisted, pent up laughter finally forcing its way to the surface.

In response, the ex-knight only blushed further, staring intently into his food as if it were about to reveal the secrets of the universe to him. Cutting off his laughter abruptly, the Hound glanced over towards his companion, eyebrow raised in amusement. "So, did you see anything you liked?"

Diarmuid twitched slightly, wanting to hide his true feelings with a bit of snark. "Before I walked in I did."

Cú Chulainn winced, laughing slightly. "Wow. Harsh."

Diarmuid glared at the Hound’s perpetually light tone, assuming it to be ridiculing in nature. "You've been mocking me this entire conversation, haven't you?"

The Ulster warrior recoiled slightly at the vehemence in his voice, nearly letting his spoon slip from his grasp. "No, not at all!"

"Truly?" Diarmuid asked suspiciously. 

"I swear it upon my mother's grave," Cú Chulainn affirmed in their native tongue. 

Taking a few deep breaths to calm his temper, Diarmuid decided to give his companion the benefit of the doubt and assume that they'd merely had a miscommunication of some sort. "Then once again I must apologize."

"Think nothing of it. Let's just put it behind us and focus elsewhere . . . For example, what sat you to a horror movie? I have yet to see one, but they sound relatively fun and there are always plenty available on the moving picture box."

Diarmuid considered the idea, mind instinctively wandering to thoughts of the Hound clinging onto him for comfort. "Horror movies shouldn't hold any fear for legends such as ourselves, so let's try one after we finish dinner!"

Both men, now beaming excitedly, began wolfing down the rest of their meal, anxious to pick out a suitable film and experience yet another thrilling aspect of modern world they now found themselves immersed in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Here, we have depicted the almighty Ulster warrior to have a deep rooted fear of crows due to their association with the Morrigan, Celtic God of War and Death, who shows up multiple times in the tale of Cú Chulainn to manipulate him and ultimately, signal his death  
> *Snippets from "The Lark in The Clear Air", a traditional Irish wedding poem  
> *Stór = Irish for "darling"


	4. Fear of Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo take some time out from their quest to experience the wonders of modern movie magic. Afterwards, they visit a landmark from Diarmuid's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Next chapter up! A bit late, but here nonetheless! Anyways, enjoy and comment if you so feel inclined to!

With the scary movie in mind, the two finished eating in a much more companionable state than the meal had started with. Once full, they settled down, sitting on the edge of the bed in front of the television, flipping through channels until they found a suitable horror flick that was just starting. Almost immediately, both knights were cracking up at the stupid, illogical actions of the characters, who were dropping like flies practically every other scene. However, unprepared for the first jump scare, Diarmuid actually did jump a bit and had to bite down on his hand to keep from screaming out loud.

Cú Chulainn didn’t have long to laugh, because while in the middle of teasing Diarmuid, a second jump scare caught the Hound entirely off guard, making him very nearly fly out of his spot on the bed. Diarmuid almost fell off the bed as well, from a mix of laughter and nerves.

"Not funny!" Cú Chulainn managed to breathe out in between laughs.

Despite these words, after a few more half screams, both were collapsed on the bed, laughing hysterically at their own fear. 

"These things are great!" The Hound gasped as the end credits began to roll.

"Seriously! We should watch more together . . . sometime . . ." Diarmuid trailed off as he imagined taking the other man out to see a film in an actual movie theater.

"Why not now? This channel is doing horror films until dawn! I believe it’s referred to as a “horror fest” or something of a similar nature!"

Diarmuid shook his daydreams away, pushing back the image of him and Cú Chulainn alone in a darkened room together towards the back of his mind. "Sure, if you don't think you're too scared."

"Is that a challenge I hear?" Cú Chulainn asked eagerly, a glint in his eye.

Diarmuid considered for a moment, pondering the repercussions (as well as benefits) of issuing a contest with the Hound of Ulster. "Why not?"

"Name your terms."

Unprepared for this demand, Diarmuid blurted out the most benign punishment he could think of. "Each time one of us screams, we have to take a shot of water?"

Cú Chulainn didn’t dignify the weak term with a comment, instead coming up with his own idea. "Hey, have you heard of a game called strip poker? I learned how to play it while I was out bar hopping a few weeks ago."

"Never heard of it," Diarmuid stated, mind instantly wandering a multitude of different directions as to what the Hound had in mind when it came to games that could be acquired at a bar. 

"It's really quite simple! You just remove an article of clothing every time you lose a round! After a designated amount of time, the person least bare is victorious!"

Diarmuid turned a brilliant shade of crimson, the mere thought of the Hound undressing before him instantly sending his heartrate through the roof. "Oh . . . I get it . . ."

"You down?" the Hound inquired, an air of challenge evident in his tone. 

Not wanting to back down in front of Cú Chulainn, Diarmuid nodded briefly, fighting down the butterflies in his stomach. Smiling, the Ulster warrior turned up the volume on the next movie, a particularly frightening film that involved plenty of gore, suspense, and, of course, jump scares. Diarmuid bit his lip hard and held on to the blanket to try and hide any signs of fear. 

Eventually, one particular jump scare involving a bathroom and lots of blood (not a period joke I swear), got Cú Chulainn, who had been tense with anticipation since the opening scene. Sighing, the Hound removed his jacket, already missing the warmth (and comfort) it provided. 

Overall tension from the combination of their bet and the onslaught of disturbing images increased exponentially within Diarmuid until he let out a scream during a rather peaceful scene. Reluctantly, he pulled off a sock.

"Really? A sock? And during the sex scene? I mean it's not THAT scary," Cú Chulainn protested, still lamenting over the loss of his jacket. 

Diarmuid attempted to defend himself. "I've been trying to hold that scream in since the hardware store . . . incident . . . And what's wrong with a sock? I don't have many other choices here."

As a result of their bickering, both men failed to notice that the music had faded to silence, indicating that another jump scare was just around the corner. When said scare arrived in true horror fashion, both leapt up, screaming loudly. Diarmuid glanced at his outfit, quickly weighed his options, and then unwillingly pulled his shirt off. Despite years of deviating from his old training regiment, Diarmuid’s body was still in excellent shape, defined abs outlined by various marks from past battles. Cú Chulainn followed suit, revealing well-toned muscles and a few scars of his own. 

When Diarmuid finally managed to tear his eyes away from the Hound’s chest, he looked down nervously, realizing that he only had a pair of jeans and a set of boxers between him and total nudity. 

"How much longer does this movie go on?" he asked, pointedly looking at any and everything but Cú Chulainn’s finely sculpted torso. 

"We just hit the halfway point."

Diarmuid shuddered, trying desperately to control his reactions so that he wouldn’t be giving his companion the full monty. No matter how hard he tried, however, he was just delaying the inevitable, and a mere ten minutes later, he was down to a single article of clothing, leaving little of his muscular body to the imagination. Cú Chulainn himself was in a similar state, slightly blushing at his own boxers, which were blue and had wolves on them.

Both of them sat anxiously, waiting for the next jump scare to get them. Of course, their tension only made things worse: all it took was a loud thump from the next room over to make them both scream and jump.

Awkwardly, Diarmuid reached for his waistband, the sudden prospect of revealing himself to the Hound simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. "Do we have to?" 

"Let's just play in reverse," Cú Chulainn conceded, hands trembling ever so slightly as he clutched his pants to his chest tightly.

Diarmuid gratefully nodded his approval, "Let's."

As the movie continued on, they worked on getting themselves fully clothed once more, aided by the increase in jump scares that accompanied the climax of the film. Once it had reached a resolution and the television was shut off, Cú Chulainn stretched back out on the bed, attempting to start a conversation that would (hopefully) break the awkward silence that engulfed them. "Well . . . That was . . . fun." 

Diarmuid shrugged, feigning indifference. "Nothing I hadn't seen earlier."

"I apologize for traumatizing you," the Hound scoffed.

"I was the one who walked in on you," Diarmuid responded reluctantly, clearly not wanting to return to their earlier conversation.

"I should have locked the door. Simple as that."

The ex-Fianna knight looked at anything but Cú Chulainn, eyes wandering upwards to stare at the austere ceiling. "Seeing nude men isn’t anything all that new to me . . . It’s just usually based on mutual consent . . ."

"You've been with other men before?" the Hound inquired, his sudden curiosity on such a subject taking them both by surprise. 

Diarmuid paused, gathering his thoughts together before responding. "Fairies . . . and others . . . don't always care about gender."

"What's . . . it like?" the Hound asked softly, as if musing his innermost thoughts out loud. 

"It's . . . different . . . Nothing like being with a woman."

"I can't say I've ever tried it," Cú Chulainn admitted, eyes glancing over the side to take in Diarmuid’s face as he struggled to come up with some way to describe it aptly. 

"Well . . . there are a lot less curves to hold on to . . ."

Cu Chulainn blushed deeply, a graphic image of such a scene forcing its way into his mind. "Ah."

Diarmuid turned over, hiding his face in the pillows. "If you ever have any other questions . . ." 

The Hound, unable to hide his curiosity, continued further probing his companion. "How do you . . . pick up one? If bedding a man is different than bedding a woman, then surely getting them there must involve different methods as well."

"Well . . . It helps if they're already interested in that sort of thing . . . Otherwise, you have to be amusing and charming, make them laugh, drink with them . . . a lot . . . and whatever you do, don't make them feel like your attraction is a threat to their manliness."

"T-thanks." Cú Chulainn turned away and fell silent, signaling that he was done asking questions for the time being.

"Anytime . . . I guess . . ." Diarmuid let his eyes flutter close and slowly drifted off into unconsciousness, all the while wondering if the Hound’s curiosity meant that he had any sort of chance.

* * * * *

The next morning saw a rare sight: the Hound of Ulster up early and ready to go, fully dressed, hair tied back neatly, and cup of coffee in hand. Diarmuid, who had just woken up from a particularly pleasant dream involving a long, exhilarating battle (take that as you will), looked blearily up at him from the bed. "What big plans do YOU have for today?" 

Cú Chulainn tossed a bunch of pamphlets from the hotel lobby at Diarmuid. "Good question. Any of these bring back memories?"

Diarmuid flipped through them thoughtfully, his attention drawn to one monument in particular. "If we drive about an hour from here, there's an old rock formation. Even if there are no clues there, it should be scenic."

"Sounds like fun!" Cú Chulainn beamed, rushing Diarmuid to get ready to leave.

After the duo had packed up and checked out, they left for their new destination. Due to Cú Chulainn's irrepressible need for speed and complete disregard for traffic codes, they arrived several hours earlier than the expected drive time. Considering that it was a bit of a trek to the actual site, the extra time turned out to be quite helpful, allowing the two to hike in the early morning air as opposed to the midday sun. While they hiked, Diarmuid tried to keep a light conversation going, helped along by Cú Chulainn’s own bright mood.

As they walked further, the road got narrower and less well maintained, making it hard for them to keep their balance. At several different points, the Hound had to grab onto Diarmuid to avoid falling on his face.

One of these times, Diarmuid allowed himself to relax into Cú Chulainn's arms for a moment, taking the opportunity to pretend that he was actually being held for love instead of support. However, not wanting to press his luck and become too obvious, he soon let go, and they continued on their way, with Cú Chulainn as oblivious as ever.

A few miles down the road, they reached the rock centerpiece of the park. Cú Chulainn, as adventurous and reckless as ever, immediately began to climb it, urging Diarmuid to do the same. When Diarmuid mounted the rock face, he climbed more cautiously, lost in thought. "I remember this place."

The Ulster warrior, who had already finished scaling the precipice, offered Diarmuid a hand to help him up to the summit, "You do? That's great!"

Diarmuid pulled himself up to the Hound’s level. "Yes . . . I stayed a night here once with the Fianna . . . We sheltered on the north side of this formation."

They both took a seat atop the rock and surveyed the surrounding area in a companionable silence. The sun was just beginning to set, casting a red glow over the entire region. Diarmuid smiled softly toward the horizon, though whether it was because of the beautiful scenery or because of some memory was impossible to tell.

Eventually, the two rose to their feet, planning on working their way back down before it was too dark to see. However, as Diarmuid made his way over to the edge, a large chunk of rock gave way underneath him and he lost his balance. Attempting to save him, Cú Chulainn reached out to grab Diarmuid’s hand, but instead ended up falling right along with him. Luckily, the drop wasn't fatally high, and fortunately for the Hound, he landed right on top of Diarmuid, softening his impact with the cold, hard ground. The other knight didn’t have that luxury and lay flat on the soil, breathing shallowly.


	5. Cat-astrophe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to find a place to rest and recuperate over night, the two knights find themselves getting more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! It's been a while, but the next chapter is here, and just in time for Valentine's day! Hope you all enjoy it! As always, let us know what you think and feel free to leave any thoughts and/or comments! :) As a final note, midterms are coming up for us soon (send help) so it might been a while until the next segment is up, but we promise we'll get it out there eventually, so please be patient with us!

Panic rising within him at an alarming rate, the Hound quickly rolled off of his companion and began checking for vital signs. Finding that Diarmuid was simply unconscious for the time being, Cú Chulainn breathed a sigh of relief and prayed that he had not damaged anything major. Upon a quick inspection, everything still seemed be in its proper place, though he would definitely need to take a closer look once he’d gotten to a place with more light. Thoroughly feeling guilty, Cú Chulainn proceeded to pick Diarmuid up in a wife carry and begin the hike all the way back, this time with the added weight of another in his arms. 

When Diarmuid finally regained consciousness several hours later, he found himself lying down on the worn leather seats of Cú Chulainn's car, his wounds being treated carefully by the Hound of Ulster. 

Diarmuid winced as his companion gently dabbed one of the deeper gashes with an alcohol swab, "How bad is it?"

"Fortunately, I don't think anything's broken. Just a few scrapes here and there," Cú Chulainn stated, reaching into his travel-size first aid kit and producing a length of cotton cloth and medical tape.

Diarmuid pulled back slightly from the sting, but didn't make a sound of protest. Despite the pain, he was quite enjoying the fact that the Hound was paying him so much attention (and at such a close distance at that). 

"I'm sorry . . . I really didn't intend on using you as a landing cushion," Cú Chulainn murmured, the guilt in his voice nearly palpable. 

"It’s fine, really. I used to be able to take much worse beatings."

Biting his lower lip slightly, Cú Chulainn gently slid up Diarmuid's shirt and began treating the shallow cuts that zig-zagged across the other man’s torso. 

This time, when Diarmuid winced, it was in self-disgust. "I have not been keeping myself in shape." 

The Hound allowed his eyes to wander over Diarmuid’s chest for a few fleeting seconds before he returned to his previous task. "What are you talking about? You look better than most."

"I mean pain tolerance wise. Back when I still retained my honor, I had to be entirely ripped to shreds before I would succumb to the pain and fall unconscious."

"Perhaps a bit more sparring would help. It just might help you build up a tolerance once more," the Ulster warrior proposed, internally unsure if the suggestion had been more for Diarmuid’s benefit or his own.

"Yes!” Diarmuid replied hurriedly, forcing himself to slow down his next response in an attempt to not sound (entirely) desperate, "Not now, but yes."

Cú Chulainn smiled slightly and pulled Diarmuid's shirt back down, moving on to the last few untreated cuts, which were on Diarmuid's face. The ex-knight shivered at the close contact, his skin instantly set ablaze by the Hound’s surprisingly gentle touch. Realizing perhaps a bit too late that he was shaking quite visibly, Diarmuid tried to play it off as a response to the cold, evening air.

"You cold? I could turn the heater on," the Hound offered, his free hand absentmindedly reaching up to caress the side of Diarmuid’s face that bore the lovespot. 

Although because of Cú Chulainn's proximity Diarmuid was far from cold, he didn't want to ruin his cover, so he nodded mutely.

Cú Chulainn swiveled around and adjusted with the various knobs and buttons to get some warm air circulating throughout the vehicle. "That better?"

Now almost too warm, but too stoic to complain, Diarmuid sat up. "Yes, I think I will be alright now."

In response, Cú Chulainn gently pushed him back down, their bodies just barely brushing against one another’s tantalizingly. "I refuse to let you do anything other than rest, at least for the remainder of today."

Diarmuid blushed, unaccustomed to others taking the lead in a relationship (except for extremely infatuated girls who quite literally threw themselves at him until he had to gently but firmly insist that he was not interested). Somehow, the Hound’s commanding, protective tone was reassuring and made Diarmuid wonder what else he had been missing in his past relationships. Before he could continue this thought, however, Cú Chulainn’s voice snapped him out of his reverie, “Now you get some sleep while I find us a place to spend the night at, alright?”

Diarmuid sighed, but allowed his head to loll back and his eyes to flutter close. “I swear, one day I’ll be the one helping you.”

“I look forward to it,” Cú Chulainn beamed, sliding into the driver’s seat and gunning it once he had made sure that his companion was situated and comfortable. 

* * * * *

As their search continued, they found themselves driving through a mostly remote area, various orchards and acres upon acres of flat fields fencing them in on both sides. Eventually, several hours had passed, and just when they were ready to give up and sleep in the car, they saw a bright, glimmering light cut through the trees. Upon closer inspection, they appeared to be at what, much to Diarmuid’s amusement, Cú Chulainn claimed was a tavern. In actuality, they had pulled up to what the ex-knight was sure was a twenty-four hour club, complete with drunkards, the stench of desperation, and all sorts of unchivalrous behavior. However, not wanting to burst the Hound’s proverbial bubble, Diarmuid kept his comments to himself and nodded his agreement to stop at the establishment. 

"Oh, I cannot wait to get a bite to eat! I would totally KILL for some chicken wings right now," Cú Chulainn exclaimed eagerly, pulling over at the brightly lit building, its giant neon sign reading: "Kitten Klub: Food, Drinks, and Entertainment".

"Whatever you want," Diarmuid murmured apathetically, still too exhausted from his unexpected trip down the cliff face to say more than was required of him.

As soon as they entered the building, their senses were assaulted by rosy lights, what had to be buckets worth of glitter, and energetic dance music. A greeter dressed in shorts, fishnet stockings, a bandeau, and a set of cat ears approached them, her hips seemingly in perpetual motion, yet not necessarily in time with the “music” that blared insistently. All smiles, she batted her impossibly large eyelashes and gave a flirtatious wink. "Clawsome evening we're having, isn't it? Mroaw can I help you two alley cats?"

"We'd like a table . . . please . . ." Cú Chulainn attempted, his mind (or more likely, his libido) still trying to process the outfit.

"Purr thing, sweetie," the woman beamed, grabbing two menus and leading them over to a dimly lit table somewhere within the depths of the club. 

The two knights looked at each other in slight confusion, the odd choice of décor and overall ambiance most definitely something neither would have ever come across back in their own respective times. "It must be a themed restaurant," The Hound offered. 

Diarmuid looked at the stage towards the front of the room bemusedly. “Something like that.”

As he looked over the menu, which was rife with horrible cat-related puns as well as euphemisms of an entirely different nature, Cú Chulainn leaned back in his chair, eyebrows suddenly furrowing in confusion. "Their chicken wings must be absolutely AMAZING if they're charging fifty dollars for one basket."

"Maybe it's a really large basket that's meant to be shared?" Diarmuid had barely glanced at the food or the prices, instead focusing his attention towards finding a way to sit that didn’t bother his newly acquired collection of scrapes and bruises.

However, when they asked the waitress about sharing, she simply shook her head like they were crazy, so Cú Chulainn ordered his desired meal, while Diarmuid got the first thing on the menu: shepherd's pie. After a half hour or so of small talk, the food arrived, each plate being carried by a scantily clad waitress. The shepherd's pie was placed down in front of the ex-Fianna knight with only a little bit of flirting, but Cú Chulainn's dinner quickly became a production number. The more buxom woman of the two stood right in front of him to place his respective dish on the table, ensuring her hindquarters stayed in his face the whole time. She then proceeded to hover right above his lap, bumping and grinding enthusiastically.

Cú Chulainn could only stare at the voluptuous curves gyrating mere inches from him, thoroughly dumbfounded. "Did I miss something?"

Diarmuid blinked a couple of times, finally making the final connection about just what kind of establishment they had entered. "It seems you ordered a lap dance along with your meal."

"I most certainly did not experience anything like THIS back when I ordered food in my own time. Not that I’m complaining . . ."

Diarmuid idly picked at his food, a slight tinge of jealousy rising up within him without warning. “I occasionally met friendly barmaids who would sit on my lap.”

"Are you implying that you wish to have a turn?"

Grimacing with discomfort, Diarmuid shook his head. "They probably wouldn’t look kindly on us trying to share and I’m too tired to appreciate it anyway."

Gently reaching out to stop the waitress’s still-twirling hips, Cú Chulainn removed the purring woman from his lap. "That's enough for now, sweetheart."

She stood up straight and stalked away, blowing a kiss to the Hound as she left the two men temporarily alone at the table.

"Well. That was . . . interesting," the Ulster warrior chuckled, still a bit unsure about where he stood on the whole ordeal. 

"Enjoyable?"

"Overall, I would say so, but I would prefer it with someone more my type."

"Oh? And that would be?" Diarmuid questioned, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

"To start off, someone with a plenitude of charisma and charm."

Diarmuid smiled teasingly, bringing a small spoonful of his meal up to lips, "I'm sure some of these lovely waitresses would fit the bill."

"I'm not too fond of those who get around. I prefer loyalty over promiscuity." 

Diarmuid's smile became more strained as he considered all the lovers he had had in the past, but he kept it pasted in place as he lowered the spoonful back into the bowl. "That is generally considered favorable, isn't it?"

"And what about you? What kind do you prefer?" the Hound returned, genuine curiosity evident in his tone. 

Shaking away the image of Cú Chulainn that immediately came to his mind, Diarmuid tried to evade the question. "It's . . . been a long time since I've taken a lover."

"That doesn't mean that you don't have preferences," Cú Chulainn stated, leaning forward to grab a chicken wing from the basket. 

"You've heard the legends . . . When I was first around, I was fairly indiscriminate . . . These past ten years I haven't had any interest in that kind of thing . . ." 

Cú Chulainn blinked, clearly doubtful of Diarmuid's words. "No interest whatsoever?"

"You saw me in that bar . . . I haven’t been able to conjure up interest in anything as of late."

"I could help you with that."

Diarmuid raised one eyebrow, heart beginning to race at the many possible implications behind the Hound’s words. "Really? How so?"

"I could assist you in finding someone who piques your interest. Be your ‘wingman’, as they call it now a days."

Diarmuid glanced down at the table, his own reflection meeting his gaze as he stared into his drink. "Good luck with that . . ."

"Come now, it can't be THAT hard to find you someone who at the very least catches your attention."

Diarmuid's eyes shifted rapidly, looking everywhere but at Cú Chulainn. "I don't know . . . Most of these people all blur together."

The Hound seemed to take notice and only pressed the ex-knight harder for information. "Well, has there ever been anyone who stuck out?"

"You mean in modern times?" he asked, dodging the question as best he could. 

"Past, present, future . . . Any time really." 

"Well, there was my first goodfolk lover who gave me a house by the sea . . . And of course there was my master's fiancée, Gráinne, who just made everything a complete mess . . . There were many others at one point or another . . . More recently . . . It's hard to say . . ."

"Don't you get . . . What's an appropriate word for it in this day and age . . .? Ah! Cravings?"

"They've been suppressed for so long I hardly even notice." 

"Wow . . . For someone who was renowned for being a lover, you sure haven’t been doing much loving as of late . . . We really need to get you back into the swing of things."

"What's the point, if there's no one available around who gets me interested?"

"You'll find someone eventually, I'm sure of it," Cú Chulainn insisted, flashing Diarmuid quite the charming smile.

Diarmuid ducked his head to hide the color that was rapidly developing in his cheeks. "But the real question is if the one I find also finds me worth their time."

"Those who don't find you worth their time are either mad or just plain stupid."

Diarmuid chuckled, attempting to hide how flattered he was with a bit of bravado, "Smooth, aren't you?"

Cú Chulainn winked saucily. "You bet."

Just as Diarmuid’s next reply was forming on his lips, the already-dim lights above them dimmed even further and a single, albeit intense, beam of light was trained center stage. Judging by the hoots and cat calls from within the audience, the main act of the night was just about to get underway, and, having nothing better to do for the remainder of the evening, the duo decided to stick around and enjoy the show.  
After about an hour or so of various “dance” routines, a pitchy song here and there, and something that could only be described as a gymnastic routine crossed with a strip tease, the clowder took a bow (as well as the money proffered by their loyal patrons) and retired to their dressing rooms. 

After a few more moments of thoughtful silence, the Hound turned towards his companion, "So, did any of them in particular catch your eye?" 

"Those women . . . are quite . . . flexible."

"And is that to your liking?" 

"Given the right person, it can definitely leave a lasting impression."

Cú Chulainn grinned, a few memories from his own past resurfacing for the first time in ages. "Speaking of impressions, those kittens sure couldn’t take their eyes off of you even while performing, could they? I suppose your lovespot is a real distraction, no?"

Diarmuid reached up to his face self-consciously, his fingers gently ghosting the mark that had caused him nothing but trouble ever since it was bestowed upon him. "Ah, yes . . . My little fairy curse . . ."

"You consider it a curse to have women swooning all over you?" 

"It's not very fun feeling as though all the girls you meet aren't truly interested in you at all . . . And then there are jealous husbands and boyfriends to deal with, even if I didn't actually DO anything."

Internally scolding himself for being so insensitive, Cú Chulainn offered up his condolences to the other man, "I apologize . . . I didn't realize how much of a hassle it could be."

"Well, you don't seem to do so badly with women yourself," Diarmuid smiled, more than relieved to draw the subject away from his own love life (or current lack thereof). 

"I had my fair share of experience back in my first life."

"But not any more recently?" 

Cú Chulainn merely shrugged. "Been too busy traveling to start any lasting relationships."

Diarmuid nodded, a playful smirk forming on the corner of his lips, ". . . And you don't go for any other kind."

The Ulster warrior smiled sheepishly, a light red tinge just barely visible on his face despite the poor lighting. "Well, that's a different story entirely."

"I see . . . That's your business entirely. I apologize for pressing."

"No, no. It's fine. No harm done."

As the Hound resumed devouring his meal, Diarmuid, who had already finished his own, sat back in his chair, watching as the waitresses danced lithely around the tables. A few minutes later, Cú Chulainn pushed back his now-empty plate, yawning. 

Diarmuid, instinctively mirroring his companion’s yawn, glanced over at the paw-shaped clock that adorned one of the pink walls. "It's already past midnight . . . What should we do about finding a place to sleep?"

"This place probably has a bed in it somewhere," the Hound stated simply, placing the money necessary for the bill as well as a generous tip onto the table. 

Diarmuid smiled in amusement, "Probably . . . But they're not intended for sleeping, I'm sure."

"We can ask for fresh sheets."

"We may as well try."

With a bit of charm (as well as a lot more cash out of the Hound’s wallet), the two managed to acquire a small room, which featured a heart shaped bed as the centerpiece, a closet chock-full with what appeared to have the contents of half a Halloween store, and a bedside table filled to the brim with paraphernalia. Just as they were working out how they were to split the bed between the both of them, two of the waitresses who had served them earlier strutted into the room, each choosing a man to embrace and asking just what exactly they could do to please these big tomcats.

While Cú Chulainn didn't really mind the attention all too much, Diarmuid was struggling to peel the kitten off of him. "I really just want to go to bed!"

"So do they . . . Just not in the way you’re thinking," Cú Chulainn laughed, allowing his hands to wander for a few brief moments.

Mind whirling, Diarmuid tried to figure out a way to get the girls out of the room so that they could have a few peaceful hours to themselves (although he had to admit to himself that his irritation was only partially because the women were keeping them from sleep, and mostly because of the buxom woman climbing all over the Hound). In this highly annoyed state, he went for the first plan that came to his mind without any hesitation whatsoever. Firmly pushing his kitten away, Diarmuid crossed over to the Ulster warrior and displaced his as well. Before either could protest, the ex-Fianna knight wrapped his arms around Cú Chulainn’s waist from behind and brushed his lips over other man’s neck, "You see, sweeties, we requested the room . . . for us."

Blushing, the kittens slunk out of the room, finally leaving the two knights alone. As soon as the door closed, Diarmuid released the Hound and backed across the room. "I beg your pardon for invading your personal space like that."

"So you requested this room just for us, hm?" Cú Chulainn asked, raising an eyebrow deftly.

Diarmuid turned to face the wall to hide his blush. "Well it wasn't for those girls . . . they said this was the only room they had open . . ."

"What? Not into foursomes, are we?"

"Not really when-" Diarmuid stopped short of saying 'when I'm only interested in one of the people.' "Why? Are you?"

Cú Chulainn scowled slightly at his companion. “You clearly had figured out what kind of establishment this was well before we came into the room. If you didn’t want to participate, you should have gone to sleep in the car.”

Unwilling to admit that the Hound’s eagerness to bed the kitties was making him jealous, Diarmuid tried to blow it off. “If you were so excited about those women, who I’m sure fit your ideal of loyalty, you should have just kicked me out and had a threesome. I requested a bed so that I could sleep in it and that’s what I’m going to do.”

The Hound rolled his eyes. “Well. Aren’t you a ton of fun?”

Diarmuid spread out on one side of the bed, leaving the other side open for the Hound despite his companion’s current cheeky mood. “As I said earlier, I haven’t had any interest in that kind of fun for a while.” He closed his eyes to discourage any further conversation.

A few minutes later Cú Chulainn took his own place on the bed, muttering something about how for such a famous lover, Diarmuid sure seemed scared of loving. Pretending that he hadn’t heard him, the ex-Fianna knight stared at the wall, replaying in his head how it had felt to brush his lips against the Hound’s surprisingly soft skin, even for a moment.


	6. Fish Out of Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To fill time on the journey, Cú Chulainn decides to introduce Diarmuid to some of his favorite hobbies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Long time no see, huh? Well, here it is! Sorry about the delay! We promise that the next chapter will be out a lot sooner than this one, so keep an eye out! It'll be quite the . . . interesting one. ;)

To show that there were no hard feelings from the Kitty Klub fiasco, Cú Chulainn offered to show Diarmuid some of his own personal interests (that is, in addition to sparring and drinking). After pondering over the many possibilities, the Hound decided to start with one of his favorites: fishing. Being more of a hunter, Diarmuid hadn't ever fished much, so he was fascinated by the prospect of learning fishing techniques from an expert, as well as spending more leisurely time with the Ulster warrior. 

After Cú Chulainn had located what he deemed to be the perfect spot, a clear, bubbling brook located within a dense thicket, he taught Diarmuid to cast off, then laid back, arms behind his head. "Now we play the waiting game." 

Far too used to the thrill of the chase, and expecting at the least a bit more preparation (a.k.a. the sensation of the Hound’s warm breath on his neck as he taught the ex-knight the proper way to cast), Diarmuid was soon hiding his impatience by lightly drumming his fingers on his leg. 

Another hour of nothing crept by slowly, with Diarmuid getting increasingly antsy. Upon hearing a sigh of irritation pass the ex-knight’s lips, the Hound glanced over at his companion, eyebrow raised in poorly-concealed amusement. "You doing alright over there?" 

Not wanting to offend Cú Chulainn by seeming uninterested in his favorite activity, Diarmuid tried to come up with some excuse to take a walk through the woods, anything that would get him away from another minute of staring into the gentle stream. "Perhaps I just need to go stretch . . . for a while . . ." 

As Diarmuid stood up to stretch, though, he became tangled in the mass of fishing wire that was knotted precariously at his feet and began to stumble. He windmilled his arms, trying to grab onto something, but ultimately ended up falling ungracefully into the water. 

Immediately, the Hound rushed over, offering Diarmuid a hand. "Yo! You okay?" 

With Cú Chulainn's help, Diarmuid pulled himself on to the bank, coughing up water, but trying to play it off as if it was an everyday occurrence. "Yeah . . . yeah . . . just drenched, that’s all . . ." 

"Damn, that’s unfortunate. If it was any colder out, we’d be getting some snowfall." 

Diarmuid shivered involuntarily, simultaneously attempting to ring his hair out to the best of ability, "You’re telling me. It already feels as though it is." 

"I'll get us a fire going, but you should probably . . ." Cú Chulainn trailed off uncomfortably, eyes casted out towards the surrounding brush. 

Diarmuid got the idea, but didn’t want to say it aloud for fear that he’d sound too much like a blushing maiden. "Probably . . . ?"

"Take off the clothes you're wearing now so that we can get you dry," the Hound mumbled, attempting to appear busy by gathering a small pile of twigs and dried leaves.

Diarmuid cursed internally as he felt his face flush a deep crimson, his stained cheeks highlighting his amber eyes, "I suppose that's logical."

"You can at least have my jacket," the Hound offered, shucking the aforementioned article of clothing off and tossing it towards the thoroughly flustered ex-knight.

Diarmuid accepted it gratefully, then turned away from Cú Chulainn to begin removing his clothes. Despite the unrelenting chill of the encroaching evening, the ex-knight felt his entire body heat up a few degrees at the mere thought that the Hound might have been watching him undress, those haunting, yet bewitching eyes hungrily drinking in the sight.

After a few moments of tense silence, the Hound spoke up, a small smile gracing his lips, "For one who has had more lovers than I've had battles, you sure are shy."

"To be fair, I haven't had one in centuries . . . I gave up on lovers when I gave up on honor, so I am now officially out of practice at stripping on riverbanks . . . Besides, this is hardly a situation where I am being called to be a lover."

"Are you implying that you were once in practice at stripping on riverbanks?" the Ulster warrior chuckled, leaning back on his haunches to admire the small blaze he had managed to get going.

After he had draped his sopping clothes on a nearby tree branch, Diarmuid wrapped the Hound’s jacket about him, still shivering violently, "I was once in practice at stripping in many places."

Not oblivious to his companion’s discomfort, the Hound gestured for Diarmuid to come closer, "Get over here, will you?"

Diarmuid looked startled, but nevertheless shifted toward the Hound of Ulster, making sure that the coat stayed firmly wrapped around him.

As soon as the ex-knight was within the Hound's reach, Cú Chulainn darted forward and wordlessly pulled the other Irishman into his warm embrace. With the Ulster warrior’s limbs wrapped tightly around him and his hot breath upon his neck, the proximity and shared body heat awoke instincts that had once been second nature to Diarmuid, and he had to restrain himself from shedding the jacket and reducing the distance between them even more.

"This better?" Cú Chulainn mumbled into the damp tangle that was currently Diarmuid’s hair.

Still trying to sort out his swirling emotions, Diarmuid nodded briefly, reminding himself to maintain his self-control. As he stared into the fire in an effort to distract himself from the plethora of increasingly graphic images arising within his head, he could have sworn that Cú Chulainn leaned in and nuzzled him slightly, but he ultimately chalked it up to his own feverish delusions and reminded himself for the umpteenth time that he must hold on to what little honor he had left and never force a lover.

As the late evening slowly morphed in night, a cold chill, along with a strong, steady breeze, settled into the area, causing Cú Chulainn to pull Diarmuid in closer, their bodies pressing warmly into one another’s. Diarmuid shook, only partially because of the cold, his willpower to resist temptation dwindling with every additional second spent up against the Ulster warrior.

"If you want, you could take my clothes. I'm naturally warm, so the cold won't really bother me," the Hound offered, shifting to disentangle their now partially-numb limbs.

Diarmuid was more than ready to put his own back on even if they were still wet, if only to establish a barrier between him and the Hound. "No, no, that won’t be necessary . . . My clothes should be dry by now, right?"

"Most likely," Cú Chulainn stated plainly, his hands releasing their hold on Diarmuid’s waist.

Diarmuid reached out for his clothes and began pulling them on, cringing at the slight dampness after having been so warm.

"You sure you're gonna be okay? You'll catch a cold if your clothes are still damp."

"I'm fine really," Diarmuid insisted, sniffling slightly.

Chuckling softly, Cú Chulainn began gathering up their things. "Was that a sniffle I heard?"

"No, not at all . . ." Diarmuid said, his voice undeniably hoarse.

The Hound rolled his eyes, a playful smile gracing his lips, "Sure it wasn’t . . . C'mon, let's get you somewhere warm. Some soup ought to do you some good as well."

Diarmuid nodded, refusing to admit to his fellow countryman that he was right about his impending sickness despite the fact that his throat become was becoming sorer by the minute.

Soon, the duo were on their way back to the car, the thought of turning the heater on full blast compelling Diarmuid to take the largest strides possible without breaking out into a full-on sprint. When the reached the road, however, Cú Chulainn stopped dead in his tracks, almost tripping the knight behind him. “What kind of piece of shit would steal my car?!”

Diarmuid scanned the road for some sign that the Hound had misinterpreted the situation, but could only acknowledge the absence of his companion's vehicle. “One who didn’t know who he was messing with,” he croaked weakly.

Cú Chulainn spoke as if ready to go into a full on rant about the whole mess of a situation, “Now what are we going to do? The next town is miles away!” 

“And we have no way of calling a taxi?” Diarmuid interjected, trying to come up with some way to turn it around and return his companion to a better mood.

“Guess who made the bright decision to leave their phone in the car.”

“I guess we’ll just have to camp for a few days then.” Diarmuid attempted to sound cheery despite his suspicion that the cold night air would only worsen his developing cold.

“Let’s get to it, then.” The Hound growled, storming down the beaten path.

Diarmuid followed, struggling to keep up with Cú Chulainn’s furious pace. Eventually, the sun began to set, leaving the duo cold, hungry, and irritated. Concerned that if he didn't clamp down on the Hound's fury within the next few minutes then they'd just end up spending the rest of the night hiking, Diarmuid found a nice spot under a tree and indicated his refusal to trek any further that night. “Should I start a fire here?”

“That would be preferable to this blasted cold, yes,” Cú Chulainn snapped, not actually seeming to have any interest in creature comforts of any sort.

Diarmuid gathered up some wood to start a small fire and pulled the Hound over to sit beside it. Exhausted from all the hiking and the outpouring of anger, the Hound fell asleep rather quickly. As the fire died, Diarmuid curled up beside him to share body heat (refusing to admit that he was just making excuses to lie beside the Hound). Despite the turmoil from throughout the day, the two knights were soon both relaxed into deep slumber.


	7. Without a Car in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no vehicle, the two knights have an unexpected camping trip in the woods, but how well will they handle their eventual return to the temptations of civilization?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello there! Long time no see, huh? Well, here she is: the next chapter! We had quite a bit of fun with this one, so enjoy! As a side note, finals are this week, so it will be a week plus until the next bit is up, so please be patient with us! As always, we look forward to hearing from you all! :)

The Hound wasn’t quite sure who had made the first move, but as he and his fellow knight rolled around atop the bed, he ultimately decided that he had better things to focus on, such as the fact that Diarmuid was now slowly, but surely, removing his clothing piece-by-piece. The Ulster warrior felt a huge sense of relief as his companion stripped before him, as if he had been waiting for the moment for far too long (after all, patience was admittedly not his strong suit). After running his eyes over Diarmuid’s defined, naked body for a few blissful moments, Cú Chulainn suddenly felt as though his pants were a bit too tight.

As though sensing this, Diarmuid reached out, unbuttoning them with impossibly nimble fingers, “Allow me, mhuirnín*.”

“Are you sure about this?” Cú Chulainn inquired, gasping quietly as skin brushed against skin.

“I couldn’t be more sure,” Diarmuid whispered, gently sliding Cú Chulainn’s clothes off.

Once the Hound was fully nude, he flung the covers over them both, relishing in the sensation of the silken sheets beneath him and, more importantly, the feeling of Diarmuid’s body above him. 

Amber eyes darkened with lust and desire, Diarmuid leaned down to kiss the Hound firmly, displaying none of the uncertainty and restraint he normally forced upon himself. In response to the intense stimuli, Cú Chulainn groaned, giving Diarmuid’s tongue access to his mouth. The Fianna lover thoroughly explored this opportunity, simultaneously sliding his hands over the Hound’s body as their tongues entwined. 

Responding instinctively, the Ulster warrior’s hands slid down until the found Diarmuid’s bottom. As he gave the firm flesh a light squeeze, Diarmuid began closing in the gap between their flushed and waiting bodies. 

Just as they were a mere inch apart, the Fianna legend leaned in to whisper, “All my experience as a lover is now just for you.”

As they moved in to become one, the Hound’s eyes flew open and he took in the familiar sight of the surrounding Irish wilderness, now illuminated by the bright light of dawn. He shook off the tantalizingly realistic dream as best he could, but quickly realized that it had had some lasting physical effects. He glanced over to his companion, fervently praying that he was still sleeping. Before the Ulster warrior could breathe a sigh of relief that his companion was indeed still unconscious, Diarmuid rolled over in his sleep and ended up sprawled atop him. Unfortunately, the disturbance was enough to rouse the ex-knight from his slumber and Cú Chulainn could only stare in horror as those oh-so-gorgeous golden eyes fluttered open. 

Desperately, Cú Chulainn mentally ran through a list of turnoffs in an attempt to will the issue at hand away, but it appeared to be far too late, for the ex-knight’s bewildered look told the Ulster warrior all he needed to know. After a few brief seconds of incredibly awkward silence (which seemed to drag on for an eternity for the both of them), Diarmuid finally managed to find his voice, “Cú Chulainn? What?”

“I-it’s nothing!” the Ulster warrior stuttered, blushing feverishly as his fellow countryman glanced down at the direct consequence of his fantasized romantic rendezvous.

Seeming to have regained his composure, the Fianna lover simply stated, “It happens to every man at one point or another.”

“Usually not when others are around to witness,” the Hound mumbled, still thoroughly humiliated despite Diarmuid’s apparent understanding of the situation. 

Attempting to joke the Hound’s embarrassment away, Diarmuid winked, “If you want, I could take care of that for you.”

Falling silent over the fact that the ex-knight (along with his own inherently inappropriate unconsciousness) was the entire reason why he was in such a fiasco to begin with, the Hound turned away, effectively bringing their conversation to a grinding halt.

With the addition of embarrassment on top of Cú Chulainn's residual fury from the day before, he didn't make a very charming companion on the rest of their journey towards the nearest town. His foul mood even began to affect Diarmuid, returning the knight to his restrained attitude and feelings of helplessness. Over the next two nights, very few words were spoken between the two, only discussing necessities of survival until finally, just before sunset on the third day, they saw their first signs civilization.

The duo stumbled into a rather ramshackle village, looking as if they had just spent an entire fortnight sleeping on dirt with hardly any form of nourishment (and no methods of retaining decent hygiene either). Before the Hound could even suggest lodging, Diarmuid dragged him to the garda, filing a report for the missing car. 

The second he was done, Cú Chulainn grabbed Diarmuid by the scruff of the neck, barely giving him a chance to protest before pulling him to the nearest pub, where the Hound proceeded to down one drink after another. Diarmuid on the other hand only ordered one drink and strange to form was sipping it, not wanting both of their wits to be dulled in an unknown town. 

Without warning, the Ulster warrior leaned across the table, spilling some of his ninth drink in the process, "Did I ever tell you how irresistibly attractive you are?"

Diarmuid had thought he had faced the worse pain imaginable in his second death, but it was like a fresh agony: having his deepest held wishes fulfilled but tainted by the alcohol and the knowledge that none of it was real or in earnest. This made his responses abrupt and gruff, his tone conveying the very definition of aggravation, "I've heard it before from others."

"Yes, but were they brave enough to act upon it?" the Hound slurred as he reached across the table to grab Diarmuid's hand and kiss it softly.

Diarmuid pulled back, inwardly cursing at the light blush that was working its way across his face despite his irritation, "I was never known as a monk if that's what you're asking."

Cú Chulainn arched an eyebrow deftly and smiled seductively. "Is that so?"

"Look up the legends. You might actually learn something," Diarmuid retorted, keeping his face an expressionless mask.

"Why waste time reading when I could just learn straight from the source?" 

"The source is too old for drunken games."

Cú Chulainn blinked rapidly as Diarmuid stormed off towards the general direction of the bathroom, quizzically wondering just what it was he said wrong. However, he shrugged it off by downing the rest of his drink in one go and moving on to a group of voluptuous babes seated at the bar.

The ex-knight spent a long time at the sink in the bathroom, splashing water in his face and trying to scrub away his cursed mark. After a few minutes of nearly rubbing his face raw, he regained a bit of his composure and resolved that he would ignore the drunken advances and just haul the Ulster warrior to a hotel once he passed out, hoping that the Hound would have forgotten it entirely by morning.

By the time Diarmuid finally exited the bathroom, he found Cú Chulainn capturing the attention of practically every woman in the establishment, along with a few of the men as well. Feeling sick, Diarmuid didn't even bother walking back to his place at the bar, but went to a booth in the back and sat to wait for Cú Chulainn to drink himself under the table.

After obtaining a plethora of numbers (and celebrating the addition of each one with yet another round), the Hound literally did such: he curled up underneath the nearest table and promptly passed out.'

Sighing, Diarmuid took his cue and walked over to drag the unconscious Son of Light out from underneath the table, all the while trying to ignore the pain that was blossoming in his heart.

* * * * *

As Diarmuid was about to place Cú Chulainn in the hotel bed, he felt the Hound's arms wrap around him and the unmistakable brush of lips against his neck. "You smell wonderful . . . Like a warm summer evening spent with one’s lover . . ."

Diarmuid practically dropped him on the bed, trembling slightly at the thought that the Hound was likening him to his past lovers, "That’s the alcohol talking. Now get some sleep. You’ll need it." He tucked a blanket around Cú Chulainn, simultaneously pushing away the Ulster warrior’s wandering hands. He then walked into the bathroom, shut the door behind him, and slumped down next to the sink, pulling his legs to his chest.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Cú Chulainn rushed into the bathroom and proceeded to throw up his guts into the toilet. Once most of the vomiting had come to a stop, he weakly managed to ask, "What happened last night? Please don't tell me I did anything incredibly stupid."

Half crushed behind the door and not having slept a wink that night, Diarmuid croaked out, "Check your pockets, I think that should about explain it."

Cú Chulainn groaned as he dug several dozen napkins out of his pockets, each with what appeared to be phone numbers and variations of “call me” scrawled in pen. Throwing them all into the waste bin, the Ulster Warrior glanced over at his companion, taking in his disheveled state. Suddenly, a look of concern flashed on the Hound's face, "I didn't do anything dishonorable to YOU, did I?"

Diarmuid paused, thinking, "It is against my code to lie, but I really don't want to tell him . . ."

Unfortunately, Diarmuid's hesitation gave him away, "Damnú air*, I did, didn't I? How bad?"

"I know you meant nothing by it, so it is no manner of concern."

"I’ll be the judge of that . . . What all did I say?"

Although Diarmuid remembered every detail of the conversation, he made vague generalities as to not further disturb their weakened relationship, "You expressed . . . interest . . . in exploring the veracity of my legend."

The Hound instantly paled and looked as though he might become sick once more, the numerous possibilities (none of which were favorable in any way) roiling in his mind. "Which parts?"

Diarmuid cleared his throat uncomfortably as he stood and stretched out his cramped limbs, "The not being a monk parts."

Cú Chulainn buried his face in his hands, thoroughly embarrassed. For the second time within a span of less than a week, he had managed to yet again send their friendship spiraling further downward. 

Sensing his fellow countryman’s social mortification, the ex-knight forced a smile, "I've heard worse, and quite often they weren’t even drunk. Seriously, it’s nothing to fret about."

Still too nauseous to stand, the Ulster warrior crawled over to where Diarmuid was sitting and leaned his head against the bathroom door. "I-I'm sorry . . . I . . ." Cú Chulainn trailed off, a light blush spreading across his face. 

Out of all the time they'd spent together thus far, Diarmuid had never seen the Hound so flustered. He wasn't even aware that the man could BE flustered, so bearing witness to an act of such vulnerability made Diarmuid forgive him just a little bit, his smile becoming more convincing. "Please, I understand it was the alcohol speaking, not you."

"R-right . . . About that . . ."

"Go on," the ex-knight urged, clearly curious. 

The Son of Light squirmed uncomfortably, unsure of whether or not he should state the previously unmentionable, "Well . . ."

"Well what?" Diarmuid snapped, momentarily losing his patience to the anxiety and tension that had accumulated in the small space of the hotel bathroom. 

"P-perhaps it wasn't JUST the alcohol doing the talking," Cú Chulainn mumbled as he looked to the side to avoid eye contact. 

However, despite his softened heart, Diarmuid hadn't entirely forgiven the Hound for his actions, and was not convinced in the slightest. "And maybe it wasn't just the alcohol when you were collecting all those numbers either." 

Cú Chulainn winced as if Diarmuid’s words had physically struck him, "I really didn't mean for that part to happen."

"Then make sure it doesn't in the future. It’s as simple as that."

"Never again. I swear." 

Last night's fiasco still replaying over again in his head, Diarmuid wordlessly left the room to check with the police if the car had been recovered.

Meanwhile, Cú Chulainn threw up a few more times, then hid under as many covers as possible, hoping that the whole situation would just blow over and they could return to their previous companionable camaraderie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mhuirnín = Darling  
> Damnú air = Damn it


	8. Aftershock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cú Chulainn's drunken actions have shaken the relationship between the two knights. Can they simply go back to how they were before? Or will things between the two only worsen until a breaking point is unavoidable?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! As always, apologies for the delay! This one took a bit longer than expected, but we think (and hope) you'll really enjoy it! :D

By the time the Hound recovered from his hangover, Diarmuid had managed to locate and return the Ulster warrior’s previously MIA vehicle, which had been found by the garda, abandoned several towns over. It was cleaned out of all items of value and gas, but fortunately, the thieves left his clothes, most of which were heavily worn and dirty, and the food items from his last trip to the grocery store. 

Once Cú Chulainn had thrown his belongings, which were strewn about the hotel room, into a plastic takeout bag and had hastily set his hair up into the usual ponytail, he slunk out to car, the ex-Fianna knight in tow. Despite the Son of Light’s previous hope to have everything returned to normal, the tension between the two Irishmen remained high, with Diarmuid only giving the Hound one-worded responses to his attempts at conversation. As he drove down the “highway” (in actuality, an improvised dirt road that really only had room for one car at any given time), Diarmuid’s pointed silence began to wear on his frayed nerves and he couldn’t help but shoot worried glances at his companion when given the opportunity. 

After a few of these sidelong looks, Diarmuid finally broke his silence, “What’s eating at you now? Run out of people to hit on?”

Slamming on the brakes, Cú Chulainn spun to face Diarmuid and spat out, "So out of the hundreds upon thousands of people you've slept with, I'm not good enough for you? You act as if I committed some huge indiscretion by accepting attention- merely attention and nothing more, mind you- from those beauties. Besides, I only went for them after you made it abundantly obvious that my advances towards you were unwanted, yet you think it somehow makes me disloyal to you? You've gotten around so much, I don't think you even know what the word loyalty means!"

Diarmuid's concern instantly turned ice cold, his entire face flushing from a combination of anger and embarrassment, "I've had blind loyalty to two lords in the past and both times I ended up dead! Is it so much to ask for someone to show me even a modicum of loyalty in return?” He paused almost imperceptibly, “Never mind! I guess I'm just a broken down slut that doesn't deserve your- or anyone else’s- respect! Now let me out of this fecking car!"

"You really want to be all alone again? Fine then! Hope you enjoy your tirade of self-pity!" Cú Chulainn shouted, slamming the unlock button with enough force to put a decent-sized dent in the plastic.

Diarmuid didn’t hesitate to jump out of the vehicle, leaving the door wide open so that Cú Chulainn would have to get out and close it himself. Not sparing a glance back as he stalked off towards the woods, the ex-knight swore to never fool himself into having false hope ever again, let alone give his heart over to a man he knew would never reciprocate his love. 

* * * * *

After a few hours of sulking and venting, the Hound decided that enough was enough. Hunting down Diarmuid with his rune magic, the Ulster warrior cornered the broken Fianna remnant in a small clearing, jumped down in front of him, and pulled him onto his feet. "Stand up. We're going to sort this out the good old fashioned way." 

Diarmuid snarled, hurt and anger evident in his tone, "What the hell do you want? I’ve dealt with enough shite for multiple life times, so I most certainly do not need you to further ruin whatever I might be able to scrounge out of this one."

In a flash of brilliant red, Cú Chulainn summoned his lance, pushing Diarmuid back a few feet. "You heard me."

Despite his outward demeanor, Diarmuid’s eyes, now a stormy amber, briefly flashed with what could only be described as anxiety, or perhaps even fear, "What is your fecking issue? If you truly find my life choices so disgusting, why don't you leave me the way you found me: too depressed to whore myself around?"

"I'm not disgusted, just . . . frustrated!" Cú Chulainn emphasized the last word by swinging his spear around quickly, his legendary weapon parting the air itself.

Diarmuid fell back out of the spear’s trajectory, cursing in Old Irish as he did so. Having had his last two lifetimes cut short at the hands of others, the ex-knight found that the will to live, to defy all of the misfortune that the world seemed intent on throwing his way, was blooming within him. With this new sense of defiance instilled within him, Diarmuid stood at his full height, ready for the next attack. 

The Hound continued his onslaught, not letting up in the slightest despite the overwhelming advantage he currently held over his fellow countryman. His eyes burning with a mixture of fury and fervor, the enraged Ulster warrior punctuated each of his statements with a swing of his lance, “Dammit, Diarmuid! Why are you so blindly stubborn?!”

Not having any weapon of his own, Diarmuid stayed on the defensive, constantly keeping an eye out for an opening. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of narrowly escaping the Hound’s spear, Diarmuid saw his chance: while Cu Chulainn's attacks were nearly impossible for the eye to follow, his back swing left an opening that, to any other warrior, would have gone unnoticed. 

On the next swing, Diarmuid darted forward, aiming blows right under Cú Chulainn’s unprotected ribcage. The unexpected force momentarily caught the Ulster warrior off guard, and he put some space into between the two of them. "Damn . . . You found my weak spot . . . Not bad," the Hound panted as they circled one another, grudgingly impressed that even after being away from the battlefield for so long, Diarmuid was still able to detect and exploit a weakness of his. 

Diarmuid smirked, all the while still keeping a vigilant eye on the Hound’s weapon, "Surprisingly, keeping it in my pants hasn't made me lose my fighting abilities."

"I never said anything of the sort, now did I?" Cú Chulainn retorted irritably. 

"You sure seemed awfully concerned about my love life for something that has nothing to do with you."

"How can you say that it has nothing to do with me after all the things I said last night?"

"You don't even remember what you said now! How can you possibly claim that you were coherent enough to express "concern" for someone who’s no better than a whore in your eyes?!"

"That doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it! That I still don’t mean it!" Cú Chulainn shouted as he launched yet another attack, this one somehow even more ferocious than the last.

"You were only interested in my past romantic escapades so you could rub in my face how worthless and slutty I am!" Diarmuid yelled, continuing to duck and get in a few attacks of his own whenever he found a chance.

The Son of Light jabbed a few more times with his spear before backing off slightly. "Maybe my true feelings for you are being masked by frustrated words."

The ex-knight squelched the momentary hope that welled up inside of him, instead focusing on the emotional pain that haunted him nearly every waking moment, "As much as I slept around, I refuse to take a lover who’s only interested when completely smashed out of their right mind."

Cú Chulainn growled with fury and his spear began glowing with a red fire. He had heard enough. Their current conversation appeared to be going nowhere, and his already paper-thin patience was only wearing thinner by the second. As the Hound transitioned into a position the ex-knight was unfamiliar with, Diarmuid instinctively began to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Gripping his spear tighter, the Ulster warrior launched himself up in the air gracefully, hovering above Diarmuid as if the concept of gravity didn’t apply to him. 

The glowing tip of the spear was aimed directly at his heart, seeming to exponentially gain power and energy as the Hound pulled his arm back for the throw. Waiting until the last moment to see exactly where the attack would come from, Diarmuid tensed himself to dodge the inevitable strike, fervently praying that the next few moments wouldn’t be his last. 

"Gáe . . . Bulg!" Cú Chulainn shouted, releasing the lance at the optimum moment with a speed and precision unparalleled to that of other warriors.

Diarmuid dived to the side as the weapon sped past at a velocity that rivaled that of bullets, landing ungracefully in a large pile of leaves. His timing was the only thing that saved him, for instead of a blow that would have left his entire left side in tatters, the only physical evidence of the attack was a short, relatively shallow cut just above his hip. Fortunately for the ex-knight, the use of rune magic earlier, the physical exertion, and pulling off his most powerful attack had left Cú Chulainn exhausted and completely drained, so much so that he couldn't even keep his lance summoned.

By the time Diarmuid managed to struggle out of the leaf pile, the Hound was barely standing, all his rage burnt out.

"Well . . . If you were . . . planning on . . . beating the shite out of me . . . now would . . . be your chance . . . to do so," the debilitated Ulster warrior gasped, bending over as if about to vomit. 

Taking a long pause in order to gather his thoughts and decide whether or not he wanted to forgive the Hound, Diarmuid walked over to gently rub Cú Chulainn's back. "No, because this slut's definition of loyalty means always returning to help his chosen companions, no matter how much pain is involved."

"Diarmuid . . . You're not a slut . . . And I'm sorry that I made you feel that way . . . I'm a real arsehole at times . . . Please forgive me . . ." 

As Diarmuid remembered all that the Hound had done for him and saw the true regret in Cú Chulainn’s eyes, his heart softened, "You are forgiven. I . . . said a lot of things I didn't mean either. But . . . now that that whole mess is behind us, I have something I need to as-"

Before Diarmuid could finish, the Hound’s legs gave out on him and he only managed to stay upright by holding onto the ex-Fianna knight tightly. Diarmuid held him supportively, relishing the feeling of the Hound relying on him for once.  
Losing consciousness at a rapid pace, Cú Chulainn's eyelids began to flutter shut, “W-what was it . . . you meant to say?”

Diarmuid murmured so softly that it was barely more than a thought, "Could you really ever love me?" Right before Cú Chulainn fell unconscious, Diarmuid pressed their lips together faintly, a sensation so light that as the Hound allowed the darkness to envelop him, he merely assumed it to be his mind mercifully granting him a desire he’d dreamt of an infinite number of times since he’d met the Fianna lover.


	9. Love Is Blind (Drunk)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid and Cú Chulainn celebrate their mended friendship with a drink . . . or maybe a few. Soon the Hound is faced with a challenge he never prepared for: an intoxicated companion who's ready to throw inhibitions to the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, lovelies! Sorry it's been so long! Life has been crazy as of late, but we really think you'll enjoy this chapter! We put a lot of effort into this one, and we'd love to hear your feedback! :3

With their first real fight behind them, Cú Chulainn and Diarmuid were eager to celebrate. Both quickly came to an agreement that a shared drink would be just the thing to rekindle their companionship. Walking down to the nearest pub, the two knights sat down at a table together and began taking shots of the hardest alcohol the bar could offer, almost making a challenge out of who could drink the most. 

The ex-Fianna knight, with his seemingly endless amount of charm, soon had the bartender wrapped tightly around his finger and was being offered numerous free drinks (as well as a phone number and a promise for a “good time”).

"Wow . . . You sure know you to milk free beverages out of those barmaids, don't you?" the Hound inquired, smiling playfully as he took another long swig from his pint. 

Diarmuid's cheeks were flushed slightly from the alcohol and he had a look in his eyes that was unfamiliar to the Hound of Ulster. Although it could have been his imagination deceiving him once more, the Hound could have sworn that Diarmuid was checking him out, his eyes doing a thorough examination of the Ulster warrior’s body, especially that of his lower half, "It's not just free beverages I'm interested in."

Cú Chulainn blinked slowly, unsure that he was hearing things right. Was Diarmuid actually hitting on him? Here? Now? How should he respond? His mind whirling a million different directions at once, the Hound blurted out the first (relatively) coherent sentence he could form, "Are you hungry?"

Diarmuid focused in on the Hound’s face, his eyes ablaze with what could only be lust, "Oh, I’m definitely hungry for something in here."

Cú Chulainn squirmed slightly under Diarmuid's piercing gaze, forcing down a hot wave of arousal by getting to his feet. "Maybe you've had enough to drink . . . How about we take a walk around town?"

"A walk's a start," Diarmuid purred, sliding gracefully out of his seat with a smooth motion that was all hips.

The Hound of Ulster turned away from his alluring companion as he paid the bill, pointedly doing his best to ignore the way that Diarmuid’s body tantalizingly brushed against him as he sauntered past.

After paying said tab, the two strolled out of the bar and into the Irish nightlife, which was, like the rest of the town, relatively quiet. Ultimately, they decided to take a leisurely stroll around the local park. At first, all was normal between them: a companionable silence accompanied by a comment here or there. However, the longer they walked, the more Diarmuid seemed to drift towards Cú Chulainn, until there was hardly any space left between them.

Startled at the sudden proximity, the Hound’s head snapped towards Diarmuid and he gave the ex-Fianna knight a nervous look-over, "D-do you need something?"

Without missing a beat, Diarmuid languidly draped his arm across Cú Chulainn's shoulder. "I think it's something we’ve both been needing."

"D-diarmuid? What are you doi-" the Hound was cut off as his companion pushed him to the ground, his body landing with a soft “thud” behind a relatively large bush.

"There's no one around parks this late . . . No one will notice if we . . ." Diarmuid trailed off, climbing on top of Cú Chulainn. Smiling devilishly, he then slid his hands underneath the Ulster warrior’s thin cotton tee and began running his fingers along Cú Chulainn's chest.

Inhaling sharply, Cú Chulainn had to force himself to show restraint (whether that meant not shoving Diarmuid off and giving him a thorough beating or simply not returning the favor, the Hound was not entirely sure as of yet). Forcing the trembling in his voice down to a minimum, the Hound managed to grind out, "You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious," Diarmuid purred, tracing slow, methodical circles on his fellow countryman’s stomach. 

"Stop messing around, Diarmuid . . . I know that you don't mean it."

In response, Diarmuid’s hands trailed down to the hem of the Hound’s shirt and for a moment his voice lost its seductive tone and sounded entirely earnest, "This is exactly what I want. What I’ve been wanting."

Squirming, Cú Chulainn bit his lip. "You'll regret it later once you sober up."

Smirking ever so slightly, the Fianna lover lowered himself so that their faces were mere centimeters apart, "I'll regret it? Or you will?"

"You got so pissed . . . when I . . . hit on you," Cú Chulainn breathed, his eyes involuntarily glancing down at Diarmuid’s lips, the temptation to press his own up against them growing by the second. 

"Maybe I was lying. Ever think of that?" Diarmuid questioned softly, his mere voice sending chills up the Son of Light’s spine. 

Falling silent, the Hound let his hands slide up to Diarmuid's waist, caught between pulling him closer and pushing him away. He wanted to, oh Gods he really, REALLY wanted to, but Diarmuid was clearly smashed out of his mind. He knew that if they really went through with this, their friendship might be compromised permanently by the time the ex-Fianna knight sobered up.

Diarmuid merely continued on, hoping his touch would melt away the doubts he knew his companion was internally struggling with, "And I know that you’re curious about trying it with a man."

"You have no idea," Cú Chulainn whispered, slowly allowing his eyes to flutter closed.

The renowned lover tentatively brought their hips together, thoroughly enjoying the sensation despite the multiple layers of clothes separating them, "So why should I hold back any longer?"

"Because you're hammered."

"Not too drunk to perform . . . In fact, the way I feel about you, I could exceed all other experiences you've ever had."

"Dammit, Diarmuid, stop being so . . . so fecking tempting!"

"Sometimes it's fun . . . to just give in . . . Besides . . . I can guarantee that laying with me will be something you’ll never forget."

Finally, the Hound surrendered, meekly opening his eyes to gaze up at Diarmuid’s expression, which had morphed into one of pure bliss. "Then show me."

Humming some tune the Hound thought he vaguely remembered, Diarmuid began sliding Cú Chulainn's shirt off.

Returning the favor, the Ulster warrior helped his soon-to-be lover out of his own, silently taking a moment to appreciate the other knight's well-toned abs. Even though he had seen his companion’s full body before, the proximity made the Fianna knight’s muscles seem even more attractive and irresistible, so much so that the thought of not touching them was near maddening. 

Both of their shirts no longer a part of the equation, Diarmuid let his hands rest at the top of Cú Chulainn's pants. "I can make this one night stand last forever . . . If you’ll let me."

Cú Chulainn only half listened, focused more on his raging internal debate. While his higher reasoning demanded him to pull away from Diarmuid’s touch, his growing desire pushed him right back to the knight’s sensuous contact mere seconds later. Sensing his hesitation, Diarmuid reached down to begin unbuttoning the Hound’s pants, his fingers brushing against him in all the right places. A definite turning point for Cú Chulainn, he convinced himself to give in to the temptation perched above him, at long last allowing his hands to wander over Diarmuid’s supple skin. 

Leaning into Hound’s surprisingly gentle touch, Diarmuid softly breathed, "See? There’s no reason for regret."

"N-no . . . I can't do this to you," Cú Chulainn whispered, halfheartedly attempting to move out from underneath Diarmuid. 

The Fianna lover merely placed his hands on either side of Cú Chulainn, effectively pinning him down, "Now where do you think you’re running off to, love? We’ve only just begun."

"Let go. I refuse to take advantage of you like this," the Ulster warrior stated, gasping slightly as Diarmuid began sliding his own pants down and over his hips. 

"It's not taking advantage if I'm in charge."

Blushing furiously, Cú Chulainn forced himself to avert his gaze away from Diarmuid's defined, naked body. 

". . . And you said I was the shy one," Diarmuid teased, placing a hand underneath the Hound’s chin and gently tilting his face upwards so that he could drink in the sight above him. With the moon behind him, Diarmuid’s pale skin seemed to almost glow, highlighting the definition of his muscles and the multitude of scars ranging across his torso. His mussed hair made him look vulnerable, a stark contrast to the commanding, piercing look in his eyes.  
"You are when you're not this hammered," the Hound breathed shakily, arousal coursing through him unrelentingly.

"So enjoy the situation as long as it lasts, baby," Diarmuid purred, his hands gracefully working on removing the last piece of clothing separating them from full skin-on-skin contact.

Immediately after Diarmuid had removed the Hound's pants, the Son of Light intertwined their bodies, enjoying the shared warmth. They fit together perfectly, as if each and every curve was molded for the others’. In that exact moment, Cú Chulainn could have sworn that his heart stopped, overwhelmed by all the potential ways Diarmuid could chose to bring their bodies even closer together. 

"Isn't this much better?" Diarmuid whispered, leaning in to kiss Cú Chulainn with the utmost amount of tenderness.

As soon as their lips met, the sharp tang of alcohol reached the Hound’s tongue, and he roughly pushed Diarmuid off, scrambling to put back on his clothes before he changed his mind once more. "No, no, no! I won't do this to you!"

Diarmuid still sat upon the ground, looking up in drunken confusion, "What's wrong?"

After he had put everything back on, the Hound pulled Diarmuid to his feet and began helping him into his own clothes, attempting to put the temptation out of sight and out of mind. "I'm not going to sleep with you. Not tonight. Not like this."

Easily reaching a conclusion that would explain Cú Chulainn’s actions, Diarmuid sullenly muttered, "I get the point. You are just so uninterested that you don't even want to take me when I practically hand myself to you on a silver platter."

Flushed and still trying to recover his composure, the Hound stammered an explanation of his complex inner turmoil, "It's not like that at all, Diarmuid. Believe me, I want you more than you would ever believe. It's just . . . I don't want to take you when you're intoxicated. If and when we make love, I want us both to be sober."

Diarmuid clearly didn't believe a single word, "Thanks for trying to lessen the blow." He gave a wave of dismissal, muttering, "I'll meet you back at the hotel later . . ."

Cú Chulainn eyes softened and he held out a hand for his companion to take, "C’mon, Diarmuid . . . Don't be like that."

Not interested in hearing excuses or apologies, Diarmuid flopped down on a park bench with his head in his hands, pointedly ignoring the Hound of Ulster.

Cú Chulainn refused to give up, crouching in front of Diarmuid so that the ex- Fianna knight couldn’t avoid looking at him. "Come on . . . Let's go back together . . . Please?"

His head swimming from the toxic mix of hard alcohol floating around his system, Diarmuid grudgingly gave in and walked silently behind Cú Chulainn to the hotel, wanting nothing more than to pass out on the bed and forget the whole night. However, the Hound presented other options for him, offering to make his companion something to eat. "Just tell me what you’d like."

Sticking to his original plan, Diarmuid collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in a pillow so he wouldn't have to talk.

Wanting Diarmuid to have something other than booze in his system, the Hound proceeded to prepare a simple dinner of hash browns and sausage anyways. When finished, Cú Chulainn walked over to Diarmuid’s spot on the bed and gently rubbed the knight's back, once again trying to initiate a conversation. "Come join me at the table."

Diarmuid mumbled something into the pillows that sounded suspiciously like, "I don't want anything from you."

Ignoring the Fianna lover’s foul mood, Cú Chulainn gently wrapped his arms around Diarmuid and hoisted the man up. "I'm not taking no as an answer." The Hound then dragged him over to the table, setting up a place for him.

Once he was slumped in a chair, Diarmuid stared down at his plate as if he blamed it for everything that had gone wrong in his life. Realizing that Diarmuid was prepared to stare down his food until it blinked, Cú Chulainn moved his own chair so that he was sitting next to Diarmuid and began feeding the other Irishman himself. Diarmuid chewed his food quickly, as if it was a huge trial for him, and the instant he was finished, he launched himself out of his seat.

Catching Diarmuid before he completely fell, the Son of Light helped him back over to the bed, lying him down comfortably. After a moment of thought, he leaned in to kiss his drunken friend on the forehead. "I'm sorry."

Diarmuid shrugged, his drunken state helping him remain indifferent. "At least now I’m clear on exactly how you feel."

Cú Chulainn shook his head. "I don't think you quite understand."

Still not in any mood to hear excuses, Diarmuid closed his eyes, shutting him out. "I understand well enough."

Seeing that Diarmuid would be passed out in a matter of seconds, the Hound sighed and threw himself down onto the couch, trying to get some sleep of his own. He rested fitfully, though, haunted by dreams of what might have happened if he hadn’t stopped Diarmuid and by the thought that he might have passed up his only chance to experience the famed lover in his natural element.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't that such a tease? XD Don't worry, things will be picking up from this point on, so make sure to stick around! ;3


	10. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Diarmuid wakes up and remembers the events from the night before, he is overwhelmed with regret. Will an unexpected lead bring him the breakthrough he needs to get him back on his feet, or is a downward spiral starting for the Fianna knight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, hey! It's finally here! Our longest chapter yet! This one without a doubt took the most amount of time to finish and polish up, so please, leave us a comment telling us what you think! 'Tis much appreciated! Without further ado, read on, and enjoy! :3 As a side note, we JUST figured out how to use the rich text (lol), so if the format is a bit different, that's why!

After making sure that his companion wasn't going to slip into an alcohol-induced coma, Cú Chulainn flopped onto the couch, replaying over and over again what it had felt like to have Diarmuid pressed up against him, if only for a few brief moments. The sensation even managed to worm its way into his dreams, unlike Diarmuid, who slept heavily, without a second thought towards the night's events.

* * * * *

That morning, the Hound awoke before Diarmuid, heading into the bathroom to take a very cold shower. He was clean, dressed, and fully energized long before his companion was even close to opening his eyes. After an hour of aimlessly flipping through the channels on the hotel T.V., the Hound grew impatient and, at the first sign of movement from his fellow countryman, exclaimed, "Yo! You finally up?"

The ex-Fianna knight winced, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please not so loud . . . Someone dropped a brick on my face . . ."

"To be more accurate, an entire bar worth of beer," the Hound corrected, glancing over at his disheveled companion, who had deep, dark rings under his eyes and hair sticking out every which way (even more so than usual).

In response, Diarmuid groaned and buried his head back in the pillows, his hangover clearly quite intense.

Without saying another word, the Hound headed into the kitchenette to make some instant coffee for his fallen companion, determined to get Diarmuid up and moving for the day despite his obvious unwillingness (or more accurately, inability) to do so.

The aromatic scent of the pseudo-coffee wafting over towards him, Diarmuid gradually attempted sitting up, every movement triggering another wince.

"How bad is it?" the Hound inquired, the unmistakable noise of a spoon clanking against the side of a cup ringing painfully in Diarmuid’s over-sensitive ears.

"I’ve felt worse . . . Probably . . ." the Fianna lover mumbled, trying to no avail to think back to a time when he had dealt with as persistent and severe a pounding in his head.

The Hound abruptly cut the ex-knight out of his reverie, handing him a steaming mug of coffee, "Here you are . . . It's not the best, but it'll just have to do for now. At the very least, it should help take your mind off of the hangover."

Diarmuid murmured his thanks, shakily bringing the cup up to his lips.

After a few brief moments of silence (save for the soft slurping sounds coming from his companion), the Hound spoke up, "Hey, Diar?"

The knight barely glanced up from his hot breakfast, clearly far more interested in keeping his grip on the mug steady than whatever it was the Hound had to say, "Hm?"

"How much . . . of last night do you remember?"

Diarmuid immediately began searching his mind for even some vague memory of the previous evening, "Nothing except a lot of drinking . . . Why? Did something happen?"

"N-no. Nothing at all." Cú Chulainn stuttered, eyes shifting nervously away from Diarmuid’s.

The Fianna lover’s own eyes narrowed in suspicion, trying to recollect what could have happened to make the Hound, always confident and self-assured, seem so uncertain.

Without another word, The Hound, obviously itching to put some space in between him and Diarmuid, hurried out to grab them breakfast.

As soon as he left, Diarmuid had a sudden flash of memory: Cú Chulainn's nude body splayed across the ground, his slightly tanned skin practically glowing in the soft moonlight. The shadows highlighted his muscular form, yet did nothing to hide the burning desire in his crimson eyes. Diarmuid felt his cheeks warming in response to the image until he abruptly realized that even his overactive imagination couldn’t have come up with something so detailed. The Hound’s compromising position must have been part of his missing memories, as well an explanation as to why the Hound wouldn’t meet his gaze. Trying to quell the rising panic within him, he frantically tried to piece together how the situation could have possibly occurred.

After about a half hour of wracking his brain for the answer, it hit him all at once: him shoving Cú Chulainn to the ground, both of them stripped down with bodies entwined. He buried his face in shame, wondering how he could have fallen so far to become willing to force a lover.

Before he could even begin to consider whether or not they taken things all the way, Cú Chulainn returned with a box full of donuts, excitedly exclaiming, "Look at these things! They're so strange!"

Diarmuid nodded weakly, skipping right past the Hound’s enthusiasm and getting straight to the matter at hand, "I'm so sorry . . . What I did to you was . . . is . . . unforgivable."

The Ulster warrior avoided his gaze by staring intently at the annoying bright pink box in his hands, "I-I don't know what you mean."

"Yesterday . . . when I was drunk . . . I really didn’t mean to-"

"It's fine. No harm done," the Hound interjected, hoping Diarmuid wouldn’t dwell on the subject for more time than was necessary.

Diarmuid flushed in frustration at not being able to remember how far he had taken everything, "What exactly did I do?"

"Just a bit of foreplay, that’s all. Nothing too major."

"N-nothing else?"

"It didn't get that far." Cú Chulainn reassured him, trying to hide his disappointment that it hadn’t.

"This wouldn’t have happened if I could just figure out how to not throw myself at anything that moves . . . You would have thought I’d learned my lesson the first time around . . . I'm so incredibly sorry, Cú Chulainn."

"I don’t think you quite understand. It was . . . mutual," the Son of Light admitted, hoping Diarmuid would finally get his point.

However, it seemed to roll right off the ex-knight’s back, the Hound’s confession doing nothing to brighten his dreary and depressed companion, "I shoved you down and practically forced you. How in Caer’s* name is that mutual?"

The Hound sighed frustratedly and dropped the box filled with sugary goodness on the coffee table that was acting as a barrier between them, "Diarmuid, just listen to me. I'm fine."

"No thanks to me."

Still trying to get his point across, the Hound argued, "If I had really wanted to, I could have easily pushed you off."

"Which you did eventually . . . But you shouldn't have had to. I should have never-"

The Hound, finally losing what little patience he had to start with, cut his fellow countryman off with an irate gesture, "Could we just drop it? There's no need to worry about it."

Diarmuid finally fell silent, looking down at the couch cushions as if hoping they could reverse time so he could undo everything.

Cú Chulainn immediately saw through his calm demeanor to the underlying guilt. "Hey."

Without even looking back up to make eye contact, Diarmuid mumbled a quiet "Yeah?".

"Stop that."

"I can't," Diarmuid stated miserably, eyes still cast downwards.

"Please. It's nothing to stress about."

"Just hand me one of those fried circles," Diarmuid muttered, more than ready to just put an end to the conversation.

With the two Irishman finally on the same page (at least when it came to moving on to a different, less touchy subject), Cú Chulainn handed the ex-knight a green frosted donut, complete with rainbow, clover-shaped sprinkles.

Diarmuid arched an eyebrow gracefully, confusion written all over his flawless face, "It's so . . . bright."

"Try it!" the Hound smiled, clearly relived to be focusing on something other than the obvious tension between the two of them.

Trying his damnedest to focus on breakfast instead of the bittersweet memories flittering in the back of his mind, Diarmuid took a small bite from his deep-fried pastry, "I-it's so sweet."

The Hound flashed the Fianna lover a toothy grin, grabbing a bear claw for himself, "You like it?"

The knight nodded slowly, trying his best to ignore the way Cú Chulainn licked the sugar off of his lips.

"Good! Because there's plenty where that came from!" the Hound exclaimed enthusiastically, clearly excited by his discovery of a new and intriguing form of sustenance.

"Just how many did you get?" Diarmuid laughed, the sound practically music to the Son of Light’s ears.

"A dozen! They told me it was the standard!" the Hound smiled back, passing the box over to Diarmuid so that he could see for himself.

The Fianna lover’s eyes widened as he took in the plethora of bright, colorful treats, "We’re going to be in this hotel trying to finish these things for ages!"

"Mmph  . . . On the contrary . . . I thought we'd . . . go out today," the Hound mumbled, simultaneously trying a chocolate éclair with no consideration towards not talking with a full mouth.

"Where to?" Diarmuid asked curiously, racking his brain for anything of potential interest they had previously seen in the small town (before he got blind drunk, that is).

"There's a museum featuring Celtic mythology not too far from here. If they’re even close to true and proper museum, they’d have to include you."

"You think they might have something about my death?"

"No doubt!" Cú Chulainn beamed, his confidence even somehow managing to worm its way into Diarmuid.

"Let me take a shower before we go," Diarmuid stated, rising to his feet and staggering to the bathroom, praying that a hot shower would wash away his shame in his actions from the night before. However, his mind didn’t seem to be willing to let him catch a break, for it kept wandering to the memory of the Hound nude.

He scrubbed himself raw, trying futilely to wipe the memory from his thoughts, but the lingering image of the Ulster warrior beneath him was driving him crazy. His mind, ever ready to betray him, returned again and again to his desires, each time only deepening the empty pit he felt within, a constant reminder of his sins. No matter how much he wanted the Hound, he told himself, he had to remember that it was just wrong to be lusting after his companion so fervently.

 ** _But what if he wanted you and you missed out on your one and only chance?_** Diarmuid's mind supplied.

_Wanted what exactly? To be thrown into a bush and harassed? He must have gotten scraped up, no thanks to you._

**_If he did, he didn’t even notice. He was too busy being caught up in feeling you against him, wanting you to share a moment of pure euphoria with him . . . Just THINK about what it would have felt like to have him one with you, even if only for a few split seconds._ **

Diarmuid bit his lip, immediately turning the water all the way to cold, hoping the freezing temperature would divert his attention elsewhere. But alas, it seemed his mind still had other plans for him:

**_Can you even imagine what it'd be like to go all the way? How incredibly mind-blowing it’d be?_ **

_As if he'd let you. He’s clearly uncomfortable with the idea of lying with another man._

**_If that's true, then why did he let you strip him? Touch him? Kiss him?_ **

_He had been drinking too. You were practically taking advantage of the poor man._

**_Or maybe he just wanted you, Diarmuid, and you just have too big a chip on your shoulder to see it._ **

_How could I ever deserve that amount of happiness?_

**_You've suffered for so long, just give him a chance. Give yourself a chance._ **

The part of Diarmuid’s mind that had long given up began to waver in its conviction, wondering, _Could I really go for it? SHOULD I go for it?_

**_You should. Once you let him experience the full scope of our skills, there will be no more talk of regrets. You’ll both finally be satisfied, there's no doubt about it. So stop mucking about and go for it!_ **

By the time Diarmuid had somewhat settled his internal argument, he realized he'd already been standing in the shower for almost half an hour.

The Hound also seemed to have taken notice, for he shouted from outside the bathroom door, "Diarmuid! Just what are you doing in there?"

"I-I just . . . I’m still a bit hung-over, so I keep losing track of what I'm doing."

"Well, let’s get that arse moving!"

"Alright, alright. I'm coming . . . Keep your britches on," Diarmuid muttered, scrambling to dry off and get ready.

As soon as he was dressed, Diarmuid allowed an impatient, eager Hound to lead (or more accurately, drag) him out to the car and drive them on over to their designated location.

After paying for their tickets in, the two wandered around, taking in the small museum, a converted barn that, despite its size, was packed full of information as well as paintings and replicas of objects from the most famous of Irish legends. Eventually, they came across the room that was dedicated to the Fenian cycle, a bright, vibrant loft that had a full-scale painting dedicated to each member as well as a life-size statue of its illustrious leader, Finn McCool. Diarmuid walked around the room in wonder, looking at each depiction of the men he had traveled with and fought alongside for so many years.

"Where are you at?" Cú Chulainn asked, expecting an entire shrine to be dedicated to his unbelievably gorgeous and chivalrous companion.

Diarmuid squinted at a small painting in the corner, one that depicted a small, darkened figure keeping guard as the rest of the Fianna participated in festivities some distance away. "I think this is meant to be me . . . It's not very flattering, though, is it?"

The Hound allowed his eyes travel up and down his companion’s body before falling on the label positioned next to the piece. "It definitely doesn't measure up to the real thing."

"Now what does it actually say about me?"

Cú Chulainn leaned in close, then pulled away after a few more seconds, "Aren't you hungry? I know I sure am! Let's go get some food, yeah?"

"What? Does it not say anything useful?" Diarmuid inquired, trying to gently push the Hound aside to get a better look at the plaque underneath his likeness (or more accurately, unlikeliness).

"We should go! C'mon, lunch is on me!"

Diarmuid recognized that the Hound was trying to hide something from him and began to lose his temper, "Cú Chulainn, I need all the information I can get. If you won't tell me, at the very least move so I can read it myself."

The Hound bit his lip, but stepped aside to let Diarmuid read the paragraphs underneath the picture.

In no uncertain terms, they outlined the tale of a heartbreaker who seduced his leader's intended, causing the ultimate downfall of the Fianna's unity. The more Diarmuid read on, the more he shut down, returning back to the endless rut of self-loathing that Cú Chulainn had slowly been pulling him out of.

"Hey, hey, hey. Diarmuid, stay with me," the Hound soothed, attempting to pull his defeated companion into a loose embrace.

The ex-knight merely shook his head, slumping brokenly out of the museum, unable to say a word. 

Cú Chulainn followed him, determined to help his comrade, "Don't listen to them, Diarmuid. They have no idea of who you truly are."

Diarmuid was clearly having none of it, having heard far too many disparaging opinions of his honor to listen to his companion, "They certainly seem to have a pretty clear viewpoint . . . It seems Kayneth wasn't alone in his opinion of my worth. I need to stop kidding myself that I ever deserved the title of knight."

The Ulster warrior stepped out in front of him and gently placed his hands on Diarmuid’s shoulder. "Hey. Look at me.”

In response, the Fianna lover rolled his head to the side to glance at his companion, self-loathing evident on every feature of his face.

"In my eyes, you're worth the entire country of Ireland." The Hound spoke earnestly, praying that Diarmuid would sense the truth in his words. 

The ex-knight lifted a hand as if to cut him off. "Listen, Cú Chulainn. You've been very patient with me, humoring all the hope I had left, but that has all been exhausted. Stop holding yourself back by staying with me."

"Diarmuid, please, listen to me. We will find your lances. I swear to you. So don't give up."

"You really think the missing lances are the problem? The problem is all me."

"No, it's not. You're a wonderful, amazing person. You’re just going through a rough time, that’s all."

Diarmuid laughed bitterly. "That explains why my masters were always so eager to see me dead."

The Son of Light looked into Diarmuid’s eyes, desperate to make him believe. "I would never be eager to see such a thing."

"You must be the only one in history," his fellow Irishman muttered, silently listing every single person who had ever wished for his death.

"Even if that was true, so what if I am? You've captured my complete and utter adoration, a feat no other knight has ever accomplished."

Diarmuid turned away in shame, memories of times he had wronged Cú Chulainn welling up in his mind. "I've done nothing to earn that.”

"On the contrary." Cú Chulainn immediately countered, but to no avail.

"All I ever had was my honor, and that is now worth nothing."

"You have me. As well as my full support."

"And I am keeping you from your true destiny."

"What true destiny?"

"Everything you had been doing . . . That you were going to do . . . You were enjoying yourself before you came across me in that bar and I ruined everything."

Cú Chulainn shook his head, taking a step closer. "I'm enjoying myself now. With you."

Diarmuid instinctively stepped back, anxious that the proximity would only cloud his judgement, tempting him back to the situation from the night before. "Your pity only makes it worse."

Without allowing the ex-knight another word in edge-wise, the Hound darted forward to bring Diarmuid into a warm, comforting embrace.

Diarmuid instinctively cringed, seemingly discomfited that the Hound would still be willing to try and help after all of his attempts to push him away. "You should stop wasting your time."

"I'm not wasting my time. You’re worth every second."

"I'm a hopeless case . . . A lost cause . . . I always have been, always will be. Even a few centuries’ worth of time hasn’t changed that."

The Hound gently tilted his chin up and gazed into his amber eyes, "Don't."

"Don't what? Tell the truth? My actions last night are enough to prove that I have lost all honorable qualities I may or may not have had to start with."

The Hound sighed, closing his eyes in frustration for a few split seconds before opening them back up again, "You don't understand. I wanted to. So very badly."

"You shoved me away. Despite how long it’s been since I’ve had a proper lover, I'm not so far gone that I can't recognize when someone’s uninterested."

Cú Chulainn tried to explain what had been going through his mind in a way that Diarmuid would take to heart, "I didn't want to make love with you while you were that hammered. It would have felt like I was taking advantage of you."

"There’d be no advantage in taking me. Drunk or not, I’m just a worthless piece of shite that couldn’t even bring pleasure to a nymphomaniac with the sex drive of a rabbit."

With that, Cú Chulainn had had enough of Diarmuid's miserable tirade of self depreciation and silenced him by pressing their lips together. His kiss was rough, full of raw emotion and pent up passion, saying more than any of his verbal entreaties ever could. The unexpected insight into the Hound's desires stunned Diarmuid and made him freeze up, completely unresponsive.

The Hound immediately sensed his companion's reticence and pulled away, backing up, "I-I'm sorry!"

The other knight, thrown off his depressed cycle by Cú Chulainn's fervor, shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. "N-no . . . I've been wanting that for weeks . . . But I know I don't deserve it . . . I don't have the courage to love anymore . . .T-that's all I'm known for . . . What if I don't even have those skills left?"

"Then we'll learn them. Together."

"Y-you should find someone who's actually worthy of you to kiss."

"There is no other man I'd rather kiss."

Diarmuid's head was reeling with new possibilities, but afraid to leave known territory, he backed up, still pushing the Hound away. "That's because you aren't really interested in men! You're just curious to try something new!"

"Diarmuid, I want you. Only you. There's no simpler way to put it."

The Fianna lover looked up at him finally, cheeks reddening as they made eye contact.

Seeing a spark of hope in Diarmuid's eyes, the Hound decided to press his luck, playfully adding, "Perhaps another kiss is needed to get my point across."

A faint memory floated through Diarmuid's mind, a place that could possibly remind him of his skill as a lover and return enough of his confidence to be fully open with Cú Chulainn. He turned away, gently grabbing the Hound's hand to show that he wasn’t fully rejecting the Hound’s advances, but was still not quite ready to make a move.

"Diarmuid?" The Hound held his ground, trying to figure out how far his companion was wiling to take their relationship.

"Hm?" Diarmuid tugged at Cú Chulainn, trying to get him to start walking. 

"I want to be your lover."

Not ready to openly discuss his feelings for the Hound, Diarmuid changed the subject. "Come with me."

"Oh, gladly," the Hound chuckled, flashing his signature wolfish smile.

Ignoring the innuendo, Diarmuid practically dragged the Son of Light over to the car, opening the passenger door for him. The Hound slid onto the seat, unresistant, curious to see where his companion was taking him.

Without any further hesitation, Diarmuid sped to the coast, looking intently out the window for landmarks that could have lasted through the centuries.

After silently watching the Irish countryside speed by for a few minutes, the Hound finally broke the silence, "Diar?"

"Yes?" The ex-knight didn't let his eyes waver from the road ahead. 

The Hound, growing ever impatient for a straight answer from his companion, blurted out, "What do you think about it? Us becoming lovers, that is."

"I think of very little else lately." Diarmuid evaded the question once more, his uncertainties still strong.

"Tell me exactly what you think of."

Confronted with a direct command, Diarmuid let his daydreams spill out of him unfiltered. "I see your body, beautifully exposed, every inch of skin a chance to make you feel sensations you've never experienced."

The Hound shivered violently, hands digging into his thighs.

Diarmuid shrugged as he finished his description, "At least in my mind I remember how to be a good lover."

"I'm sure you're the best damn one in all of history, past, present, and future."

Diarmuid just shook his head, cutting the conversation off abruptly by taking a sharp turn onto a narrow path. As they drove right along the edge of a cliff, the Hound prepped himself to grab onto the steering if it became necessary, worried that Diarmuid's reckless driving would take them over the edge before he had a chance to convince his companion that his feelings for the knight ran far deeper than mere lust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Caer - In Celtic mythology, the goddess of sleep and dreams. She served as Diarmuid's foster mother. 
> 
> Well, how was the big reveal? Finally! No more beating around the bush for these two! Stay tuned for next chapter, for it's gonna be quite the interesting one! *Winks* As a final note, finals are coming up for us (please spare us quarter system), so please be patient with us! For the sake of your enjoyment and our pride as authors, we'd much rather take the time to produce something well put together and enjoyable than something rushed and sloppy. Quality over quantity, yah know? With that said, we love you all and we can't wait to see you next time! ;3


	11. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid takes the Ulster warrior to his original home, but he still has yet to decide if he's willing to finally open up to his beloved companion. As for the Hound himself? Well, he's got a few choice words for the Fianna lover, and this time he's determined to get them out whether or not they are welcomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Sorry it's been so long (again), but now school is out for the summer for us, so expect updates a million times quicker for the next few months! As always, thank you all for your support as we continue along our heroes' adventure! Be sure to stick around, because things are finally starting to get juicy! ;3

Cú Chulainn hopped out of the car the second it was parked, avidly taking in the view. Looking across the cliff, all he could see was an abrupt point where the land disappeared, then a vast expanse of sky. "This place is beautiful! I don't think I've been here before either."

Diarmuid took a deep breath, trying to put all his thoughts in order before he said anything to the Hound (especially anything that he could potentially come to regret later). "Most people cannot find this place." 

"Oh? And why's that?" the Ulster warrior inquired, stretching out languidly as he chanced a sidelong glance at his companion.

"It was a gift from the goodfolk."

Cú Chulainn racked his brain for the exact legend connected with the seaside land. He vaguely remembered something to do with a _very_ impressed fairy lover (it was no question as to _why_ they were so openly generous) gifting Diarmuid with a new place to live*, "Ah . . . Wait! This wouldn't happen to be . . . Would it . . . ?"

Diarmuid searched the Hound’s face, realized that his fellow countryman had probably recognized the story (at least enough to make any over-complicated, drawn out recitation of the tale irrelevant), and decided that he really didn’t want to talk about his previous lovers in front of a man he wanted more than all of them combined. "It is."

Cú Chulainn blushed deeply, thinking of all the precious moments Diarmuid must have shared with others there so many years ago, "It is an honor to bring me to such a place."

Diarmuid’s face instantly mirrored the Hound’s own flushed one as he breathed, "This is a place meant to be shared between . . . lovers."

As if it was a competition between the two of them to see who could most resemble a stoplight, the Son of Light turned an even darker shade of red. "I-"

Diarmuid bit his lip, equally eager and petrified to hear what the Hound was going to say. "Y-yes?"

Cú Chulainn took a deep breath and then exclaimed, "I think I'm in love with you, Diarmuid. You’re just so gorgeous. And I truly mean that in every sense of the word. Inside and out, you’re the most beautiful fecking being I’ve ever had the privilege to lay eyes upon . . . Gods, you do things to me that I’ve never felt before and I just-" the Hound sighed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to slow down and gather his damn thoughts, "What I’m trying to say is . . . I can no longer force myself to ignore how I feel for you, so . . . feck it all! Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, I, Cú Chulainn, Hound of Ulster, am totally and irrevocably in love with you!"

After the Hound had concluded his confession, Diarmuid remained silent, avoiding eye contact long enough that Cú Chulainn for the first time felt an uncomfortable awkwardness rise between them. His confidence sank, and he opened his mouth, ready to take back his heartfelt, if a bit hasty, words. Then, without warning, the ex-Fianna knight, throwing his fear and hesitation to the wind, pulled the Hound into a passionate, searing kiss, expressing all the feelings he had suppressed in that one action. Cú Chulainn had no choice but to melt into Diarmuid (not that anyone would hear him complaining), unable to do anything other than attempt to keep up with a man whose skills as a lover far exceeded that of his own.

When the Hound’s proximity began to override Diarmuid’s mental facilities, the Fianna lover pulled back slightly, speaking quickly as he tried to apologize for his loss of control, "I will do my best not to push you further or faster than you are comfortable with, so please, forgive my physical expression of love."

"Are you kidding me? There's nothing _to_ forgive! You have my permission to do that anytime you want," Cú Chulainn laughed breathlessly, simultaneously winking at Diarmuid. 

Diarmuid smiled softly as he reached out to caress the Hound’s face wonderingly, gently tracing patterns he longed to follow with his lips.

The Ulster warrior closed his eyes and leaned into Diarmuid's tantalizing touch, the sensation more comforting than the sun’s gentle caress on a warm summer’s afternoon and the world’s softest sheets combined. "So you’re absolutely sure that this is where you want to  . . . lay down . . . for the night?"

His companion spoke hesitantly, glancing towards the jagged cliff. "Do you trust me?"

Without hesitation, the Hound nodded. "Of course. Infinitely so."

"This way, then." Diarmuid abruptly disappeared over the edge of the cliff, a blur of darkness against the deep orange sunset.

Not giving himself a moment to think about it, Cú Chulainn jumped after him, falling only a few feet before Diarmuid caught and pulled him onto a small ledge that led into a cave. In the very back of said cave was a door carved into the glaringly ancient and weathered stone, covered in illegible inscriptions. The knights headed directly for the door, pushing it aside to reveal a series of comfortable rooms that, despite being hacked out of the cliff, could have passed for a well-furnished, albeit musty, home. However, unlike your typical house, softly glowing lanterns took the place of windows, illuminating each room while also highlighting the lush furnishings and simple décor.

"Gods damn! All this really shows the benefits of making good with the fey. Lugh* knows at least half of them still hate my guts," Cú Chulainn exclaimed in wonder, all the while picking up random, dusty tchotchkes, only to set them back down in their proper places mere seconds later. 

Diarmuid smiled at his companion’s excitement over memorabilia he had entirely forgotten. "Welcome to my ancient home.” He added in an almost indecipherable whisper, “A place I was too depressed to come back to on my own."

Not wanting him to dwell on the past, Cú Chulainn wrapped his arms around the Fianna lover from behind, nuzzling him ever so slightly, "It’s a good thing you’ve got a handsome Ulster knight to keep you company then, no?"

Diarmuid allowed himself a brief moment of comfort, then got back to business. "As you can see, it’s been . . . a while since anyone’s been down here, so any food that _might_ have been left here will no longer be consumable. Do you have anything in your car that I could bring on down?”

"Just a half-eaten box of granola bars and a case of water. Oh, and I might have a can or two of soup."

Diarmuid squeezed his hand lightly before heading towards a flight of stairs in the corner, which led to a cobwebbed trapdoor that presumably opened up to the surface. "I'll go check. While I'm gone, why don’t you go choose which room you would like for the night?"

As Diarmuid left, Cú Chulainn checked out all the rooms thoroughly, finally settling on one that was simple, yet elegant in its own way. It contained only a few pieces of furniture, but it was one of the only rooms that was blue (to be precise, a light sky blue that reminded the Ulster warrior of the pools of still water that littered the ground right after a rainstorm), which appealed to him immensely. 

While the Hound tested out the mattress, laughing when he flopped down onto it only to have a cloud of dust swirl about him, Diarmuid returned with the random packages of food he had found in the car. After setting down his spoils, he searched the rooms until he located the Hound. Smiling, he paused in the doorway and took in the sight before him, "This is one of the few rooms that hasn’t actually been used before . . ."

Cú Chulainn, who was casually lounging on the bed, head resting on a mountain of soft pillows, sat up. "Should I choose a different one then? Because I’d understand if this one isn’t-"

Diarmuid shook his head slightly, a wistful smile gracing his impossibly handsome face, "No, no. A room should be used and feel lived in."

Quite pleased that he wouldn’t have to leave the room he’d been settling in to, Cú Chulainn grinned. "Wonderful! So what's on the menu for tonight's dinner? Coq au vin? Souvlaki?"

"It seems to be cream of asparagus soup, crackers, and a large box of packaged brownies." Diarmuid stated simply, shrugging apologetically at the limited options he was presenting.

Eager for _any_   food, no matter if it came in a cardboard box or a wrapped plastic container, the Hound appeared not to care in the slightest. "Sounds wonderful! Need any help?"

"I shouldn't, but the technology in here is hardly up to date so I will have to . . . improvise."

"Well, best of luck! Call me if it turns out aluminum cans are able to get the best of the most renowned of the Fianna knights!" Cú Chulainn shouted after Diarmuid as he headed off in the general direction of what he assumed was the kitchen. 

* * * * *

After about half an hour, Diarmuid called out that dinner had been served. Taking his cue, Cú Chulainn made his way over to the kitchen and sat himself down in a seat across from Diarmuid. The knight served the small, yet somehow well-put together dinner into old looking ceramic dishes and lit the candles on the table.

"You even made asparagus soup look good. My gods, you’re something else," Cú Chulainn praised as they both dug in.

The duo finished off the meal rather quickly, since neither of them had had any lunch. After helping Diarmuid clean up, Cú Chulainn sat back down in his chair, his entire demeanor the very definition of sated and relaxed. "Got anything planned for the rest of the evening I should know about?"

"Not really . . . I barely remember what all there is in this house to do."

"Did you want to go check it out, then? Get reacquainted with your surroundings?"

More than happy to rediscover his home in the presence of the man he loved, Diarmuid nodded. "Sure! Let's go explore."

With Diarmuid taking the lead, the two wandered around the house together, finding many pieces of precious memorabilia that seemed to cheer up Diarmuid greatly. He even finally began to open up to Cú Chulainn, telling stories of how he won some prize, lost an object for months before finding it in a completely different room, accidentally put a hole in the wall, along with many others. Along the way, they even found a stash of alcohol, a discovery that had Cú Chulainn quite thrilled (to say the least), excitedly pointing out the “classics” he thought the modern world just couldn’t seem to get right.

When the Hound finally spared a glance at his phone, they realized it was well after two in the morning.

"Ready for bed?" Cú Chulainn questioned, with just a hint of suggestion in his voice.

Diarmuid allowed his head to gently rest on his companion’s shoulder, sighing contently as he did so. "The only question is: which room do I get?"

In response, the Hound placed a soft kiss above the Fianna lover's left brow. "Perhaps you'd be so inclined to join me? It gets pretty cold on nights like this and I wouldn't want you to catch anything."

"Believe it or not, I have quite the hardy constitution. If anything, I'd be more worried about you, having never slept in this cave before," Diarmuid fired back playfully, an oh-so-mischievous glint in his eyes. 

"Ah . . . Then you'd better help keep me warm," the Hound purred into his companion's ear, sending a shudder down the latter's spine. 

As the duo walked towards the room that Cú Chulainn had chosen earlier, Diarmuid sidled up to the Hound's side, rubbing up against him slightly whenever the opportunity presented itself. There was a comfortable air between them, as if they had been doing so for months. "Oh, I know plenty of ways to do such."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * = According to Celtic myth, a fairy lover once rewarded Diarmuid's kindness by giving him a seaside house, where he lived with both her and his beloved pet greyhound  
> * = Lugh is an ancient Irish king who became a god and,according to the Ulster Cycle, the father of Cú Chulainn
> 
> As a side note, "goodfolk" and "fey" are both synonymous for "fairy" (or any other variation in spelling of the word)


	12. Starry Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that they had laid their souls bare to each other, Diarmuid and Cú Chulainn must decide if they're ready to bare everything else. Disclaimer: If semi-awkward intimate relations aren't your cup of tea, this chapter might not be for you. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! The moment we've all been waiting for! Hope you enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed writing this, because oh boy, was this chapter fun! ;D As always, let us know what you think!

The Ulster warrior chuckled as he lit a few candles, bathing the quaint little room in a soft, golden glow. He then slipped underneath the covers, using the guise of getting comfortable in an attempt to conceal his anxiousness. 

Despite the fact that he'd been in more battles than he could possibly even count, had faced off beasts of legend without so much as a second thought, and had undoubtedly exceeded the very definition of what it meant to be a warrior, Cú Chulainn found that, for the first time in centuries, he was nervous. When it came right down to it, he knew he was outclassed. Out of his league, even. He had never made love to another man before, yet here he was in bed with Ireland's most infamous lover, about to partake in something he knew he'd be absolutely clueless in. What if he screwed up? What if he couldn't give Diarmuid the pleasure he so desperately needed and deserved? What would happen to their budding relationship if-

Before the Hound could fret any further, Diarmuid, all too aware of his companion's uneasiness, wasted no time in crawling alongside Cú Chulainn, not even bothering to change into his typical pajamas before he did so. Instead, he smiled and gently reached over to liberate the Hound's hair from its confines, gasping in appreciation at how Cú Chulainn's hair flowed over his shoulders like water cascading down a cliff side. 

 _How is it that even his hair exudes grace and power?_ Diarmuid wondered reverently, weaving his fingers through the Hound's surprisingly soft locks. 

Cú Chulainn flushed a deep crimson and moved closer to Diarmuid, but not so close as to allow their bodies to touch, thereby allowing his companion to make the decision of whether or not he wished to close the gap. 

The Fianna lover hesitated, then decided that he had waited damn well long enough and closed the distance, wrapping his arms around the Ulster warrior's waist as he pressed their bodies flush together.

The Hound moaned softly, squirming slightly as Diarmuid tilted his head back and began kissing and nibbling his neck. A merciless assault on his senses, Cú Chulainn quickly slipped into a state nearly devoid of all higher reasoning abilities, reduced merely to a puddle of pure want and desire. Diarmuid, for his part, knew just how to keep the Hound in such a state, switching up his tactics so that he was teasing his soon-to-be lover with light kisses and feathery contact he could barely sense.

It was at least ten more minutes before Cú Chulainn could summon up enough mental control to form a coherent response,  ”Good Gods, you really know how to tease, don't you?” 

“Oh? And just what do you expect to be the end result, hm?”

Offering no verbal response, the Hound only blushed further (something Diarmuid could have sworn was impossible up until that point) and squirmed like a puppy seeking escape from a small child's arms.

Diarmuid refused to let him off that easily, continuing as he had been mere moments before, “If you can't find it within yourself to tell me, I guess you'll just have to show me.” 

Growling softly, the Ulster warrior rushed forward, launching into his first counterattack by brushing his lips against Diarmuid's lovespot while finally allowing his hands roam. 

Diarmuid allowed himself a quick smile at the response, then set to taking things up another level by sliding his hands up Cú Chulainn's shirt. They rested on his chest, ever so patient, lightly rubbing the battle-scarred skin beneath them as he awaited permission to lower them even further. 

Taking the moan he received in return as his answer, Diarmuid slid his hands lower, and lower, and lower, until- “I-it’s a bit _too_ hot in here now, don’t you think?” the Hound gasped, the slight waver in his voice not unnoticed by his companion.

Diarmuid’s hands instantly stilled, his eyes racing back up in an attempt to read the Hound’s face. Had he pushed his too far, too fast?  Trying desperately to diffuse the tension between them, the Fianna lover lightly joked, “The one problem with a cliff home: no windows.”

Sensing his hesitation (which was, ironically, brought about by his own hesitation), Cú Chulainn pulled back a bit, internally lamenting over the loss of Diarmuid’s touch. “Well . . . You can’t have everything, can you?”

“Want I need to know is . . . how much are we going to let that bother us?”

His crimson eyes stared directly into Diarmuid’s amber ones, willing the ex-Fianna knight to abandon his compunctions and return his hands to the Hound’s sensitive skin. “Not a damn thing can bother me when I have you around to give my full attention to, álainn*.”

Without missing a beat, Diarmuid returned to where they had been mere moments before. This time, he made a small sound of questioning before proceeding onward, still not sure if he should continue on.

The Hound chuckled, the sound light and seemingly without a care in the world, “Go for it.”

Once Diarmuid heard that, he gently set in, pulling off his soon-to-be-lover's clothes little by little. Every article removed was like a gift, revealing various birthmarks as well as the tell-tale signs of battle amongst his many refined muscles.

The Fianna lover lightly ran a finger along the scars, tracing them as if committing each and every one to memory. “You've really gotten yourself beat up over the years, haven't you?”

The Hound shivered ever so slightly, the act of completely revealing himself to Diarmuid very nearly on par with the thrill and excitement of the battlefield. “Can’t help it. It comes with the job.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Diarmuid murmured, planting kisses on each and every one.

Smiling softly at his companion’s tender, attentive doting, Cú Chulainn slipped Diarmuid's shirt off, then let his hands run over his lover's chest and abs. 

The gentle contact sent a jolt of energy straight up Diarmuid’s spine as he leaned in to kiss Cú Chulainn passionately, their lips slotting together perfectly, as if they were made to do so. The Hound used their lip lock as an opportunity to slide Diarmuid’s pants down and over his slender hips, _finally_ removing the last obstacle separating them from one another’s bodies. As soon as the famed lover was nude, he instinctively pressed against the Son of Light, desperate for as much skin-on-skin contact as physically possible. As their kiss deepened and the heat between them rose to a fever pitch, Cú Chulainn, gods save him, let out an undignified squeak, not unlike that of a mouse caught in the jowls of its prey. He was far too unused to the feeling of a man’s body against his, especially in such an intimate way, to be able to control his instinctive reactions. Perhaps it was better this way, every reaction raw and unfiltered, just for Diarmuid. _Only_ for Diarmui-

“Are you sure about this?” Diarmuid inquired softly, easing up slightly so as to not scare his partner off, especially at such a pivotal moment.

“More than anything. I want you to be my first and I want you to take make love to me here and now.”

The second Diarmuid had Cú Chulainn's consent, he melded their bodies perfectly together, legs entangled and hips moving smoothly against each other’s. The Hound's first impression was confusion: how could anyone find pleasure in this aimless rubbing? However, as soon as their lower bodies made contact, a sensation of pure pleasure coursed throughout his body, wiping out every thought except the desire for more. Sensing his lover's wants pleas as if it were second nature, Diarmuid's confidence grew, and his motions adjusted to fit the Hound's exact desires. From the moment he had first seen the Ulster warrior’s defined musculature, his mind had been full of how it would feel against him, and _every_ single one of his daydreams was coming true. He did everything in his power to produce the responses he had imagined, As the Hound began to writhe and cry out his name, Diarmuid found himself truly losing control for the first time in centuries. Both the knights were overcome by the unadulterated passion and lust they felt for one another, so, in what felt like far too short a time, they were both experiencing a massive climax, one that Diarmuid capped with a sweet, soft kiss.

The Hound smiled up at his newfound lover breathlessly, his entire body practically glowing. He felt as he typically did after a particularly challenging battle; exhausted yet exhilarated. “Now _that_ was worth waiting two lifetimes for.”

The ex-knight laughed mirthfully, both body and soul feeling light as a feather, “So, what do you think? Are men are satisfactory?”

“Well . . . I don’t know about the rest of the male population, but you, darling, are incredible. Satisfactory doesn’t even _begin_ to describe the way you make me feel.”

Diarmuid buried his face in Cú Chulainn’s throat to hide the tears welling up at the corners of his eyes, voice laden with emotions that had been suppressed for far too long, “You have saved me.”

The Hound leaned down slightly to kiss his lover sweetly, pulling away only to brush a few stray locks out of Diarmuid’s face, “How could I not? Every damsel in distress needs her knight in shining armor, right?”

Diarmuid smiled slowly, his eyes sparkling with amusement, “I think I prefer my knight out of his armor where I can keep an eye on him. I just hope that he doesn’t mind staying with a damsel who is no longer in distress.”

“I would love to stay right here with my darling damsel forever if I could.”

“And it doesn’t feel too strange starting a relationship with another man?”

“I’m still not entirely used to it, and I know that there’s still a lot more I have to learn, but there’s no one else I’d rather discover it with.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of things we can discover together,” Diarmuid purred, already planning which methods to show the Hound next time.

Cú Chulainn flushed for the umpteenth time that evening, hoping his lover would never grow tired of teaching him. “Won’t you become annoyed with having to explain everything to me?”

Surprised to hear his lover sounding so unsure, Diarmuid caressed his face gently, “Over these past few weeks, I have realized that you are all I have ever wanted in a lover. I could never tire of doing anything with you.”

Somewhat reassured, the Hound latched onto the first part of Diarmuid’s statement and pried for more detail. “And what was it that happened over these weeks to make you come to this conclusion?”

Now it was Diarmuid’s turn to blush again, not wanting to admit just how long he had been longing for the Hound. “W-well, you remember when we spent the night in the woods while it was raining?”

“Of course. How could I forget that night? It was the first time I got to hold you in my arms.”

“I had been daydreaming about you for a while before then- I mean, who wouldn’t?- but I could barely sleep that night, feeling your body heat, wanting to peel your soaked clothes away and warm you with my body . . . Gods, every inch of you just far too enticing.”

Hearing how embarrassed Diarmuid was about sharing his fantasies, Cú Chulainn countered with a story of his own, “I'm going to sound like a dirty pig for saying this, but . . . You remember that day when you fell into the river and I insisted that you take off your clothes? Well . . . I had extra back in my car.”

Both men continued sharing moments on their journey where they had almost lost control and confessed their desire for the other until Diarmuid, chuckling, wondered, “If we both wanted this so badly, why did it take us so long?”

“Maybe we just had to wait until the right time and place.”

Diarmuid purred happily, rubbing up against his lover affectionately, “From now on, the right place for me is always here in your arms.”

Cú Chulainn wrapped said arms around him tightly, kissing away all Diarmuid’s remaining doubts until nothing but a white-hot passion was left. Not wanting their first night together as lovers to end any time soon, the legends made love to each other again and again, only stopping when they both were completely spent.

Overwhelmed with the thought that the man who made him feel whole, both physically and emotionally, could really want to be with him, Diarmuid whispered, “Now you are my hound, and only my hound, for as long as that pleases you.”

Amused, yet also undeniably aroused, by Diarmuid’s suddenly possessive tone, the Ulster warrior chuckled, “I am yours as long as you are mine.”

Satisfied with Cú Chulainn’s response, Diarmuid kissed the Hound’s chest lightly and curled up against him, already nodding off. “It’s a . . . deal . . .”

The Hound pulled Diarmuid under the covers with him, brushing his lips across the ex-knight’s hair. “I love you, darling.”

“Love . . . you too . . .”

Cú Chulainn and Diarmuid shortly fell asleep thereafter, their bodies wound around one another’s tightly, and spent the night dreaming of all they could do in their future together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *álainn = Irish for "lovely" 
> 
> Well, how was it? It's our first time writing something even remotely saucy, so if you think there's any room for improvement, let us know! 
> 
> As a side not, these two are just absolutely adorable. Ah, but you knew that already, didn't you? ;)


	13. What Once Was Lost, Now Is Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Cù Chulainn's help, Diarmuid may have found a vital clue to where his weapons are. However, to follow up on it, he must be willing to face his past and everything he has fought so hard to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Finally! Our longest chapter yet! As always, we hope you all enjoy! <3

As night melted into day, the magical orbs located within the Fianna lover’s ancient home sensed the rising sun and brought similar light into the deep, cavernous rooms, illuminating the two knights, still curled up in each other’s arms. Both were completely bare, but Cú Chulainn seemed especially naked without his heavy earrings and with his hair splayed messily around his head. Like usual, Diarmuid woke up first, fondly taking in the sight of his new, completely disheveled lover.

By the time the Hound was stirring, Diarmuid had put on his earrings and carefully pinned back his hair in a rough approximation of the Hound’s hairstyle. Bleary eyed, Cú Chulainn struggled to process the vision in front of him. “Mmph . . . Morning already . . . ? Didn’t we just- Diarmuid? Just what in Lugh’s name are you wearing?”

 Diarmuid did his best imitation of the Hound’s voice, simultaneously tossing his head back and placing the back of his hand against his forehead in a gesture that could only be described as dramatic. “Oh no . . . It appears the sun has risen just to spite me!”

In response to the gentle teasing, Cú Chulainn burst out laughing, “I'm that much of a whiner, am I?”

 “Not usually.” Diarmuid smiled broadly and divested himself of the Son of Light’s earrings. “Not even about how heavy this jewelry of yours is.”

 “They’re meant to be a constant weight. A symbol of a life spent on the battlefield,” Cú Chulainn stated as he gently took the silver jewelries from Diarmuid and returned them to their proper place.

 As soon as Diarmuid had pulled the hair tie out from his hair, it sprang back into its typically tousled state, falling into his eyes. His lover, instead of putting his own hair back up, was immediately distracted by the naturally untidy curls, running his fingers through the soft tangles. Still unused to such a tender touch from his companion, Diarmuid shivered, longing for the Hound to never stop.

 Noting his effect on the ex-knight, Cú Chulainn smirked slightly, “Surely you're not cold in your own home.” The Hound followed up by pressing his lips to Diarmuid’s forehead, sending a warm sensation throughout his lover’s body.

 “Never with you around,” the Fianna lover breathed, happily returning the favor with a kiss of his own. By Gods, it felt surreal to finally have a proper lover again, especially one who was so undeniably attractive in every sense of the way. Before he could even begin thanking whatever deity that had blessed him with such incredible luck, Diarmuid was broken from his reverie as he felt his companion throw back the covers and start to slip out of bed.

 As the Hound reached over to grab his clothes, he was stopped by a sturdy hand wrapped around his wrist. “What? You planning on keeping me in the nude for the remainder of our journey?”

After pretending to seriously consider the proposition, the Fianna lover gestured over to the bathroom, “As wonderful as that suggestion sounds, _you_ got me all dirty last night, sweetheart. It’s only fair that you help me clean up after.”

“Fair’s fair, I suppose.” Cú Chulainn purred, not at all put off by the thought of showering with his handsome knight. The man was impossibly gorgeous dry, but wet? Gods save him now.

 The duo slipped out from underneath the covers and headed on over to the bathroom, where Diarmuid proceeded to get some hot water running for the both of them.

The Hound watched the pouring water curiously, an eyebrow raised quizzically, “Now how does that work? I know for a fact that they didn't have plumbing back when you got this place.”

“They also didn’t generally have fairy lovers designing their buildings,” Diarmuid murmured softly, as always, concerned that mentioning his promiscuous past would offend his love.

However, Cú Chulainn merely smirked and watched the water cascade down the ancient stone walls, gesturing for Diarmuid to head on into the gentle mist. “After you, my prince.”

As his lover strolled past him, throwing him a saucy wink as he did so, the Hound took the opportunity of being behind Diarmuid to steal a few (well, perhaps more than a few) glances at his lover’s well-sculpted body, joining him as soon as he stepped into the spray.

Diarmuid immediately turned to face him, wrapping his arms around the Hound’s neck. “You look a little wet there, darling.”

“Nothing you haven't already seen,” Cú Chulainn teased, the memory of Diarmuid walking in on him, flushed and thoroughly embarrassed, still fresh in his mind. 

“Ah, but the view is infinitely better up close,” Diarmuid purred, stepping forward so that the distance between their bodies was next to nothing.

Once he was within range, Cú Chulainn began trailing light kisses down his neck, his lips soft and tender on Diarmuid’s throat.

“Using my own moves against me I see,” Diarmuid gasped, already feeling his body burning for more. He may have had more lovers than he could count, but the Hound never failed to get him going, even with the barest of brushes or the smallest of caresses.

“Well, I have to start somewhere, because you and I both know that when it comes to the bedroom, my instincts are not quite up to par as of yet.”

Still flushed from the gentle teasing, Diarmuid reassured him, “Believe me, for a beginner, you are . . . incredible. I would rate you a solid 9.5 out of 10.”

The edges of the Hound’s lips turned up slightly, crimson eyes glittering with amusement, “So what will it take to get me that last .5?”

Obviously quite eager at the prospect, Diarmuid proposed, “Just a _lot_ more practice.”

The Hound smiled wolfishly, his tone perfectly suggestive, “You're gonna help me with that, right?”

“I wouldn’t let anyone else!” Diarmuid exclaimed passionately, laying his claim to the Hound with a deep kiss.

Cú Chulainn blissfully allowed his hands free reign over Diarmuid’s body until he suddenly remembered the actual purpose of showers and grabbed some soap (it was beyond him how a building literally centuries old still had what appeared to be a brand-new bar of soap in it) to clean his lover off. The two knights scrubbed and rinsed one another, fingers lingering longingly on each other’s bodies, before they finally turned the water off and stepped out.

After drying and getting dressed (which took multiple attempts to accomplish given that Diarmuid would _much_ rather be naked as opposed to clothed), the duo had a quick meal of cheerios and canned peaches (all they could find in their meager rations that was suitable enough for breakfast). After weighing the pros and cons of spending the remainder of the week together in bed and ultimately deciding against it (they _did_ have unfinished business to attend to after all), the Hound reluctantly returned their attention to Diarmuid’s still uncompleted quest. “So, did this place remind you of anything?”

Diarmuid’s good humor drained out of him instantly at the reminder of what he was supposed to be doing. “Well, when I woke up this morning, I realized . . . we’ve been looking for legends of my life, but . . . I had my lances with me up until my death.”

Sensing that his first death was still an incredibly tense subject for Diarmuid, the Hound did his best to be tactful, a feat which, admittedly, he was not as well-known for, “What was it that happened to you exactly? Gored by a boar, right?”

Diarmuid frowned at the all too vivid memory, the sensation of pure agony as his lifeblood poured out of him still fresh in his mind as if it happened merely yesterday, “Yes . . . And considering how disgraced I was at the time, I was most likely buried right where I dropped.”

Cú Chulainn latched on to the idea of looking for Diarmuid’s gravesite, for it was really the only lead (if you could call it that) they had at the current moment. Hell, it had been weeks since they’d last made any form of progress, so why not run with it? The worst that could happen is that they’d be back to square one, an outcome which, up to that point, had occurred countless times over. There couldn’t be any harm in trying, could there? Well, perhaps asking Diarmuid to relive his first death over and over in the hopes that they might uncover some piece of the puzzle, thus unintentionally reverting him to the near-catatonic state he’d been in when the Son of Light had first ran into him. That was a very real possibility. Putting aside his concerns (at least for the current moment), the Hound pressed on, “Do you have any ideas as to where you died?”

Reluctant to revisit the area, even if it was his best chance to find his weapons, Diarmuid was intentionally vague, “I remember it being kind of  . . . marshy?” 

The Hound sighed, trying to find a way to narrow the options down. “There are several big marshes that you could be referring to. I mean, we could check all of them, but how could we identify the correct place without any idea of what your grave could look like? Surely if you were as disgraced as you say you were, the Fianna wouldn’t have left any markers. And even on the off chance that they did, who’s to say they’ve lasted the test of time? It has been literal centuries after all.”

Reluctantly, Diarmuid searched his memory for more details. “It sounded like there was moaning deep in the swamp when the wind blew through the birch trees. I think legend said it was a trapped fairy prince singing his lament . . . Does that help?”

A spark went off in Cú Chulainn’s eyes at the thought of being so close to another clue, especially one that was _vastly_ more useful than the outdated tidbits of “information” they usually received, “Yes! I know exactly where that is! A few months ago, some locals I met recommended that spot to me! I checked it out for a bit, but it gave me some weird vibes, so I left before I wandered too far in.”

Diarmuid smiled weakly, the thought of returning to a place that even made the Ulster warrior of all demigods uneasy not helping his already-on-edge nerves, “That sounds about right . . . Come on, let's go find my grave.”

They climbed up the indoor stairs to get back to the car and drove down the coast, switching off drivers every hour. Finally, Cú Chulainn recognized the turnoff he had been directed to by the locals and took a hard left. Within a few minutes, they reached the edge of a spongy bog littered with slumped over willow trees and overgrown weeds.

“So, what do you think? Is this the place?” the Hound inquired, pulling over the car and killing the engine.

Struck with the proximity of his death site, Diarmuid shuddered. Despite them having just arrived, he knew without a doubt that this was the location they’d been searching for since day one. At the sudden realization that their quest together would be ending if he managed to retrieve his lances, Diarmuid paused, unsure of how to respond. Would the Hound leave him once they had completed what he promised to help out with? Surely he wasn’t just a one night stand, was he? Praying that the Ulster warrior’s words from the previous night were true, Diarmuid meekly answered, “Y-yes.”

Reassuringly, Cú Chulainn draped an arm around Diarmuid’s shoulders. “Do you want to do this together or is this something you need to do by yourself?”

Not wanting to burden his love with the dark memories and emotions that the location evoked in him, Diarmuid slid out from underneath his arm and propped open the car door, “This is the one and only time I will not request your presence by my side. If I’m not back by tomorrow morning, you can either come looking for me or put this place in your taillights.”

“I won’t ever abandon you here. I will patiently await your return, however long it takes,” the Hound murmured, squeezing Diarmuid’s hand lightly before placing a careful kiss right in the center of Diarmuid’s palm.

Diarmuid held his hand close to his heart, as though the kiss was a precious gift (and indeed, anything given to him by the Hound, whether it be a tangible object or a physical gesture, _was_ a gift more valuable than even Ireland’s most prized treasures). He then forced himself to hide his nerves and gave his lover a wide smile, “Go find something fun to do before I come back armed and force you to give up your single days.”

“If you insist, darling,” the Son of Light laughed, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he contemplated just what Diarmuid meant by “giving up his single days”.

With that, Diarmuid turned and walked into the marsh before the look in Cú Chulainn’s eyes convinced him to give up on his quest and retreat into the Hound’s sturdy arms. The instant he stepped onto the spongy ground, every step became a struggle, all his instincts screaming at him to turn around and flee to a location far, far away (preferably somewhere like Africa, where marshes were nothing more than a myth).

The low afternoon sun cast shadows that resembled clawed hands reaching out to drag him into the surrounding brush, which consisted mostly of thistle bushes and spider-infested undergrowth. The eerie sound of the wind whipping through the slender trees made him shiver, longing to give up, but he forced himself to continue on, searching for any location that seemed even vaguely familiar.  

After hours of wandering, he entered a copse of trees and felt a sudden chill sink into his bones. “This looks completely different,” he whispered to himself, if only to break the deafening silence, “but it must be the right place.”

He looked around for any sign of a grave, but after so many centuries, there was neither a section of raised earth nor a plaque to show where the infamous lover of the Fianna had fallen. Without any physical signs of his grave, he delved into his long suppressed memories for a clue as to where he should look. All at once, an avalanche of thoughts came flooding into his mind:

_The knight had already been on the run for far too long, but a raging wild boar with tusks that could penetrate even the most impregnable of armor was more than enough motivation to keep on running. He knew that it was his destiny to be killed by a boar, but he was determined not to go down without a fight. Even though he had been dishonored, stripped of his title, and shunned by those he had fought beside for years, he was, above all, a knight of the Fianna. No matter what was thrown his way, he would stand proudly, even in the face of death. So he soldiered on, the crashing of the brush behind him steadily growing louder and louder as the fated beast closed in on him. Finally, legs exhausted, he turned to make what he was sure would be his last stand. Already fatigued, he fought tremendously until he left a too wide opening that allowed the boar to gore him, his entire being screaming in agony at the all-encompassing sensation. He watched himself fall, his lifeblood pouring out as the boar continued tearing his body to shreds. As he dropped, his head hit a tree, allowing him to sink into blissful unconsciousness for what he thought was the last time._

With these thoughts fresh in his mind, Diarmuid searched for any sign of the tree he had been leaning against when he died. By a stroke of fortune (whether it be good or bad he hadn’t decided yet), he eventually came across a pile of ancient branches that turned out to be connected to an even older trunk that was deeply sunk into the ground. Taking a chance that this was the same tree from so long ago, he grabbed a stick and began using it to dig throughout the surrounding area.   

After a full hour of scrambling that left his hands rubbed raw and a majority of his body caked in mud, he paused, looking down at his own mummified remains. Unable to bear seeing his body in such a decrepit state, he instead focused on the ancient, cursed weapons that he had used for so many years. They were still clasped in his hands and covered in dried boar’s blood, but to his eyes, they represented everything he had been searching for. Carefully, he disentangled them and reburied his remains, this time marking the spot with a small pile of rocks and a single stem of heather. Holding his real weapons for the first time in years, he felt his heroic spirit swell up inside of him, and as he watched, the partially rotted sticks solidified into his familiar, colorful lances. As the stress melted away, he laughed with relief, ready to rush back to his Hound.

As he exited the marsh (hopefully for the first _and_ final time), he found Cú Chulainn waiting for him, casually sitting on the hood of his car and fiddling with something in his hands. As soon as he saw Diarmuid, he hopped up excitedly, all bright white smiles and eyes sparkling with relief of his own, “Yo! You did it!”

Diarmuid knelt before him, fist placed over his heart as he held his lances to the side, “Now, allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, of the love spot, knight of the Fianna, and, if you'll have me, your lover.”

Silently, the Son of Light took Diarmuid's left hand and slipped a ring onto the thumb. It was simple, a think bronze band with a Claddagh emblazoned onto on side, but Diarmuid instantly fell in love with it (along with the demigod who had gifted him with said piece).

The renewed Fianna knight looked up into his lover’s face, cheeks rosy with blissful excitement, “Should I take that as a yes?”

Cú Chulainn grinned wolfishly and kissed Diarmuid deeply before replying, “A thousand times yes. Now prepare yourself for combat. I won't be holding anything back.”

Diarmuid winked, simultaneously rising to his feet, “I should hope not. Lest you get your arse handed to you so hard that you’ll have to go back to last week to retrieve it.”

The Son of Light summoned Gáe Bulg and twirled it gracefully. “Did I mention that if you lose you'll have to marry me?”

 “Oh? But if _I_ win, you will treat me to dinner, where I will then fall on my knees and beg you to marry me.”

“Deal,” the Hound concurred, vanishing before Diarmuid's eyes, only to reappear mere inches in front of him. 

“The terms are set, then. So. Shall we begin?”

“Let's do this!”

They didn't bother circling one other this time, jumping straight into a full on sparring match. To an outsider, the two warriors would have appeared as nothing more than vivid blurs of color outlined by the opposing dull shades of the surrounding brush. Sparks flew as their lances clashed, the sound startling a nearby flock of sparrows, sending them fleeing from their perches. For Cú Chulainn, he found himself more and more immersed within their fight as the minutes flew by; never in his entire existence had he ever faced someone so equally matched. During his first lifetime, even the most famed warriors posed no threat, but this Fianna knight, on the other hand, was a force to be reckoned with. Similarly, Diarmuid was completely absorbed by the conflict, having to denote every bit of his attention into making sure that his opponent didn’t gain the upper hand.

* * * * *

The battle between the two legends raged on for hours, both of them ignoring the fatigue that was slowly but surely building with every strike. After a clever maneuver that utilized both his lances, Diarmuid took the temporary opportunity presented to him to press Cú Chulainn back. The Hound was focusing so hard on countering each blow that he didn’t notice his rear foot kicking a small rock out of its place on a surprisingly neat circle of stones. Despite his obliviousness to said action, the results were immediate; no sooner had the stone moved then Cú Chulainn felt a tidal wave of exhaustion crash down upon him, practically to the point of making him black out. Refusing to go down so easily, he soldiered on, but Diarmuid could feel his counterattacks growing weaker and pressed on with all his remaining strength, trying to defeat the Hound before he too reached his breaking point. In a desperate attempt to take back the advantage, the Ulster warrior tried to lunge forward with his spear, but the move instantly morphed into him collapsing right across Diarmuid.

Diarmuid instantly dropped his beloved weapons to catch the Hound of Ulster, filled with anxiety by his abrupt fall. “Love, are you alright? Darling?” Amidst the abrupt panic caused by the Hound’s lack of response, the Fianna lover carried Cú Chulainn over to the car and gently lay him down on the back seat to check him for any wounds.

While Diarmuid desperately tried to figure out what was wrong, the Hound stirred and attempted to sit up, but a fresh wave of dizziness forced him to lie back down. "What happened? Where am I?"

Unsure of how much Cú Chulainn had forgotten, Diarmuid placed a cool hand on his forehead, simultaneously trying to quell the trembling in his voice, "We were sparring, and you suddenly collapsed. You’re in the back of your car now. Did I injure you somehow during the fight?"

The Hound quickly checked himself over, but couldn’t feel any physical wounds, just a general ache that filled him from head to toe. "N-no . . . I don't think so . . . I'm gonna have to treat you to dinner now, aren't I?"

Diarmuid gave a short, borderline hysterical laugh, amazed at his lover’s priorities given the situation. "Did that even count as a win?"

"I just wanna marry you," Cú Chulainn muttered, looking dangerously close to passing out again. Instead of his usual golden complexion, the Hound skin was deathly pale, sweat dripping out of every pore as if he was stricken with a fever.

Hoping to distract the Son of Light from the pain he was obviously in, Diarmuid tenderly brushed his loose hair back. “You know I’m willing to beg for the pleasure of marrying you.”

"Honey, you don't ever need to beg for that," Cú Chulainn teased, a bit of blood trickling out of his mouth in the process.

The last bit of Diarmuid’s forced good humor drained away as he saw the crimson trail dribbling down the Hound’s chin. “Are you absolutely sure I didn’t injure you somehow?”

Cú Chulainn attempted to nod, wincing at the throbbing pain in his head. “I’m sure . . . Maybe I just . . . overdid thin-” He broke off into a coughing fit, too out of breath to finish his previous statement.

Diarmuid bit his lip, trying to decide the best place to take a mysteriously incapacitated heroic spirit to recover. “I’m going to take you to the nearest hotel so you can have a proper bed to rest on. You’re going to be alright after some rest.” Although he meant to reassure the Hound, it sounded more as if he was trying to convince himself as he gently buckled Cú Chulainn’s seatbelt and began to drive towards town.

Within a few minutes of the drive, the Hound slumped back over, falling into a restless, nightmare-filled sleep that he couldn’t seem to wake himself from. Each new torment followed the same theme; Diarmuid walking into the marsh, only to never return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cliffhangers! *Laughs evilly* Well, at least it's not literal this time, huh? XD Anyways, what do you think? Glad that our favorite Fianna knight is back? We sure as Hel are! 
> 
> Hi everyone! Eager to see what's next? We hope to have the next chapter up sometime early next week!


	14. Sick as a Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sudden illness that has overtaken Cú Chulainn may have more supernatural origins than a common cold. Can Diarmuid find someone to cure him before their blissful time together comes to a premature end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, everyone! It's up! (Finally!) Sorry for the delay, but we're planning a little something extra for the grande finale. We don't want to give too much away, but we will say that we trekked out in the middle of the woods to get what we needed. ;) As always, let us know what you think! We haven't heard from you guys in a while, and we'd love to get some more feedback! <3

Diarmuid floored it to the nearest village, committing at least a dozen traffic violations in the process, his first priority being to find a hotel room for his sickly love. Unfortunately, the only available room available in the entire town (“town” meaning one dinky little general store, what had to be no more than twenty residential buildings, and a shamble of what appeared to be a post office of sorts) was on the third floor, so Diarmuid had to carry the tossing and turning knight up the entirety of the staircase, trying his best not to jostle him.

As Diarmuid laid him flat on the mattress, Cú Chulainn’s eyes fluttered open ever so slightly and he weakly slurred, “Is it finally time for the honeymoon?”

“Baby, you’re delirious. We’d better put off all that pleasantry until you’re feeling better.” The glazed-over look in the Hound’s eyes combined with the rising color on his cheeks only emphasized to Diarmuid how dire the situation was. Unsure of where to start or even what the problem was, however, the Fianna knight resorted to soaking a few hand towels from the bathroom in cold water and draping them over his lover in an attempt to quell his abnormally high temperature (even for him).

Cú Chulainn, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to Diarmuid’s frantic efforts, instead burying himself under the blankets, searching for more warmth despite the fever that was slowly, but surely, consuming his body. Within a few minutes of rolling around restlessly, he had sweated all the way through his clothes, leaving both himself and the sheets thoroughly drenched.

Diarmuid, vigilant as ever, immediately took notice and brought over an extra set of clothes for Cú Chulainn to change into, hoping that some fresh, clean clothing would at the very least bring some small amount of comfort to his lover. The Hound was too weak to help in any way; even the simple movement of lifting his arms over his head was too much, so Diarmuid had to ease his clothes off and replace them slowly, piece by piece. When he got to Cú Chulainn’s shirt, he paused before switching it, instantly zeroing in on a surprisingly dark circle imprinted in the Hound’s pale skin.

“Darling? Did you always have a spot right here?” he inquired, gently resting a cool finger lightly on the Hound’s shoulder.

In a croaky voice, the Ulster warrior responded, barely above a whisper, “N-never . . . Do I have my own love spot now?”

Diarmuid lightly brushed his lips against the darkened area of skin. “I would say your whole body is a love spot.” He hesitated before continuing on, as if afraid vocalizing his fear would make it true. “It seems this . . . is a much more malevolent fairy curse.”

“What?!” Cú Chulainn squawked, voice close to panic as his superstitions rose up inside him. Ever since he was a boy, he had been told legend after legend of those who had ended up on the unfavorable side of the fey, and to put it lightly, no good ever came out of it. In fact, most ended with the protagonist cursed or second most likely, dead. So to say the Hound was worried was damn near nothing short of an understatement.

“Trust me, baby. I will find a way to fix this. I won’t let anything happen to you,” Diarmuid promised, squeezing one of the Hound’s clammy hands tightly in a gesture that was meant to be both warm and reassuring.

“Then I have nothing to worry about.” The Son of Light attempted a smile, but the panic in his eyes, combined with the way his illness morphed his would-be smile into something closer to a grimace, belied his hopeful words.

Diarmuid began scurrying around to make the room as comfortable as possible for his patient, all the while mentally running through the list of possible cures to a fey-based curse. “Let me get you settled in, so you’ll be as comfortable as possible when I’m gone.”

“So you’re getting to play hero, while I’m reduced to helpless sidekick?”

Diarmuid winked as he pulled the covers up, tucking in the Hound with the same amount of loving care a mother gives her child, “About time I get my turn.”

Cú Chulainn struggled to sit up so he could give his lover a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll miss you something fierce while you’re gone.”

“I will return as quickly as possible, love.” Diarmuid cradled the Hound’s head to his chest, kissing the tousle of blue hair lightly, then heading for the door before he could convince himself not to leave his ailing lover’s side. Once he got outside, he froze momentarily, completely baffled on just _where_ he could go to find a cure. Healers were, to his knowledge, no longer a thing, yet modern sick houses would provide no assistance. Finally, he decided to tackle the problem head on and trek into the forest just outside town to look for any sign of fey activity.

Moments after Diarmuid left, Cú Chulainn’s fever reached the stage of complete and total delirium, and he staggered to his feet, fueled by strange convictions that he felt compelled to follow. His paranoia about further attacks from the fey led him to steal all the silverware he could find in the hotel, scattering it all across his doorway in a “pattern” that could be understood by him and him alone. The constantly increasing pain then persuaded him to head out on a hunt for four leafed clovers, which he collected, blended into a smoothie with the hotel blender in his room, and threw back like a shot of Ireland’s finest Jameson*. Only after he had sprinkled salt all over the floor, finally satisfied, did he collapse across the bed in an almost catatonic state.

Meanwhile, an intrepid Diarmuid sped into the forest, knowing that time was very much _not_ on his side. Having had contact with the fey numerous times in the past, he knew exactly what to look for; he just had no idea where he could find it. When it came to the fey, everything was either a hit or a miss; whether they doled out blessings or curses really depended on their mood on that given day. They were fickle beings, with fickle desires. He of all people knew that. However, he wouldn’t let their bouts of “mischief” (the word most innocents referred to it as before they themselves became victims) take what he wanted most in this world. Never again. And so he soldiered on, sprinting aimlessly through the trees, uncharacteristically clumsy as he tripped over roots and branches in the process. All he needed to do was find was one. Only one. One-

As soon as he breached the perimeter of a perfectly circular clearing, Diarmuid knew he had happened to stumble upon just what he had been looking for; a fey circle. The air felt different. Sharper. Crisper. Charged with an energy that made his hair stand on edge. Knowing he was in the right place, Diarmuid began looking for someone- or _something_ \- that could help him. Suddenly, he heard a soft, mocking giggle from behind him.

Spinning around, his eyes flew over the span of the surrounding tree line, but he couldn’t find the source of the sound anywhere until a deceptively sweet voice chirped once again from deep within the foliage. “It’s not everyday that I’m graced with a knight’s presence.”

Irritated and impatient with the game of keep away they were currently playing, Diarmuid growled, “It’s not everyday I have a conversation with someone I can’t see.”

What appeared to be a young woman in a long, silken dress that shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow materialized in front of him, “Is this more to your liking?”

Despite his current disgust with the goodfolk, Diarmuid decided to stay as charming as possible, hoping that by living up to his reputation as Ireland’s finest lover he could get as much from the fairy as possible. Putting on his best smile (the one that had won him a fair number of hearts in the past), he purred, “A beautiful woman is always preferable to an empty view.”

The woman reached out as if to caress his face, her hands unbelievably dainty and, just like the rest of her features, free of any and all blemishes. “You have a way with words, knight.”

Diarmuid moved just out of her reach, attempting to give the guise of playing hard to get whilst simultaneously protecting his own wellbeing against such an undeniably dangerous touch. “I have many choice words for a person who might be able to help me with a certain, delicate problem.”

“And what kind of problem could a little . . . girl like me help you solve?”

Diarmuid smiled softly as he took one step closer. “Actually, it’s not for me I’m asking, but for a friend.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Then who might this friend be? Surely a man of your caliber surrounds himself with only the finest companions.”

Unsure of how Cú Chulainn’s name would be received, Diarmuid talked around the issue. “He too is a fellow knight . . . Also quite well known to your kind for his skill on the battlefield.”

The fairy narrowed her pearlescent eyes and practically spat, "Cú Chulainn, Hound of Ulster."

"So you _have_ heard of him, then?"

She snarled spitefully, her waist-long braid unravelling from its confines and moving about as if a strong gust of wind was whipping through it. "Of course. We all have. That _monster_ has massacred more of my kind than unworthy souls you’ve whored your body to!”

Pointedly ignoring the fey’s less-than-friendly comment, Diarmuid took another step closer, posture halfway between charming and threatening. "So I take it you wouldn’t be willing to help him?"

The fey laughed cruelly, not even a sliver of pity evident in her chiding voice. "Cursed is he? Then he can stay that way until he rots."

He moved to stand right beside her, smoothly slipping an arm down to rest a gentle hand on her slim hips. "Loyal to the Unseelie Court*, are you? Even if you’d never be willing to help him, perhaps you’d make an exception for my sake.” He spoke softly into her hair as he twirled a few of the gilded strands between his fingers, tone as seductive as he could possibly make it.

"While it is quite _possible_ that I'd be willing to help you . . . I wouldn’t so much as give that mutt a drop of water if he was to be raked over a bed of hot coals for all eternity! Hear me when I say that there is _nothing_ in this accursed world that I would exchange for that cur’s life!" she hissed, eyes blazing with pure, unfiltered fury as she turned to stare him down.

"What about your own?" Before the fey could even begin to register the threat, the hand carded though her hair changed from smoothing to yanking as he shoved her up against a tree, Gáe Buidhe held with point ready to pierce her dainty throat.

She hissed angrily, yet her entire body trembled as her alabaster skin started to sear where Diarmuid's spear was pressed.

"Either name your price or I’ll be forced to take more . . . extreme measures," Diarmuid demanded, making sure she could see the pure desperation in his eyes. He was a man with next to no options and little to lose, and he wanted to make it abundantly clear that he was not afraid to get his hands a bit dirty if he had to.

Gasping for breath, she spat out the most costly price she could come up with, short of the Hound’s life. "Bring me the mutt's famed earrings and I will exchange it for this-" she held open a hand, revealing a gold ring adorned with tiny emeralds. 

Knowing all too well all the tricks she could play on him, Diarmuid asked suspiciously, "And what, exactly, does 'this' do?"

"It will draw the curse out of him,” she squeaked as Diarmuid, unconvinced, pressed the blade into her skin ever so slightly, drawing golden blood, “I swear it!”

"And nothing else?"

"No! Nothing else!"

"Fine, I will retrieve your payment. Be here when I get back, or I will dedicate what remains of this life to your extermination." As soon as the deal was struck, the Fianna knight jabbed both his spears through the fey’s bodice and deep into the tree, pinning her in place to ensure that she  wouldn’t be going anywhere soon (or at least until Diarmuid had returned to make the exchange).

When Diarmuid returned to their hotel room, the door was unlocked, instantly sending a spike of panic up his spine. There was no relief once he opened the door, however, because he was immediately confronted with the aftermath of Cú Chulainn’s bout of delirium. Sharp cutlery was strewn across the floor haphazardly, salt covered nearly every flat surface, some green concoction slowly dribbled out of the hotel blender, and worst of all, the Hound himself was hanging off the bed, passed out in what could only be a very uncomfortable position.

Diarmuid snuck across the room towards the Hound, making as little noise as possible with the plethora of obstacles in his way. He was hoping to remove the earrings and get out while the Hound was still asleep, explaining the situation only once he was fully recovered and reasonable, but by the time he reached Cú Chulainn’s side, the Hound was wide awake and glaring up at him with pure, blank aggression. When Diarmuid reached for the jewelry, he attacked him as viciously as a mortally ill warrior could.

Diarmuid only partially defended himself, not wanting to accidentally injure Cú Chulainn on top of everything else the Hound was going through. "Please, my love," Diarmuid begged, trying to get Cú Chulainn to relax and recognize him before he was forced to fight back.

Breathing hard, Cú Chulainn paused, the familiar voice getting through to him. "Diarmuid?"

Gasping in relief that his love had recognized him through his feverish haze, Diarmuid reached down to caress Cú Chulainn's face. "Yes, sweetheart. It’s me."

Cú Chulainn looked wonderingly up at Diarmuid as if surprised to see him there. "I could have sworn that I died hours ago . . . I never thought I'd see you again."

"That was all an illusion, darling. With this kind of curse, you will experience that feeling of death numerous times before . . ." Diarmuid couldn't even bring himself to say the end result of such a curse. "I must stop it." He spoke with the conviction of a man obsessed by one single goal. 

"What do you need?" The Hound whispered, desperate for anything that would bring him relief.

Wincing at asking his love to give away such a meaningful symbol, but knowing it had to be done, Diarmuid breathed, "Your earrings . . . I have to trade them for the cure."

Cú Chulainn drew back, clearly not comfortable with the idea of giving them away, even if it was the only way to save his life. Not only were they the last remaining memento given to him by his mother, but they had been with him throughout his entire life; through countless battles and adventures, wins and losses, they had seen them all. To give them up after so long almost felt as though the Hound were giving up a part of himself.

Diarmuid clutched Cú Chulainn's hands. "Please, it was the only thing I could get the fey to trade. I know it's much to ask, but it's so much more to ask me to live without you!"

Cú Chulainn forced his eyes shut and sighed loudly. "Fine. Take them before I change my mind."

Diarmuid reached up to carefully remove the earrings. "Just a little while longer, I swear." He then dashed to the door to head back to the forest, clutching the earrings tightly in his fist, as if afraid to let go of them. He didn't stop running until he reached the fairy circle once again.

The fairy was waiting for him, still pinned to the tree. "He wouldn't happen to be dead already, would he?" she inquired gleefully.

Diarmuid was in no mood for any of her fairy games. "Why would I have returned if he was? I would have left you here to rot." He irritably yanked his weapons free, impatiently extending a hand for the ring.

"Darn," she pouted, keeping the ring tightly in her fist until Diarmuid proffered the earrings, ready to make the exchange.

Her eyes gleamed greedily as she snatched them out of Diarmuid's hand quickly, holding them up to the light to admire them. "These are the real deal . . . The Hound's earrings . . ."

Filled with bitter rage at the fey’s flippant attitude towards something that was so meaningful for Cú Chulainn, Diarmuid did something he’d only ever done once before, cursing her with all his spite. "May the weight of all the battles they have seen fall upon your shoulders." He pocketed the ring after a quick examination.

She laughed giddily, then disappeared before he could make any more threats, "Come see me anytime you wish, Knight of Fianna." Her merry voice echoed on the wind.

He smirked darkly speaking to the now empty clearing, "I have better wishes than that." 

With his prize now in hand, Diarmuid wasted no time in getting out of the forest. As he walked away, the fairy circle wilted and crumbled into dust, then blew away in the wind, his curse having a much more rapid affect than he could have hoped for. He didn't even notice the fey's apparent demise, though, being too focused on his single minded quest to save the one person who really mattered.

When Diarmuid got back to the room, Cú Chulainn was in the middle of "dying" yet another time, writhing and screaming as if either could reduce the pain at all. 

Not knowing if it was a false alarm or not, Diarmuid panicked and crossed the room in two steps, shoving the ring on the first finger it fit: Cú Chulainn's left ring finger. Instantly, Cú Chulainn was still, his breathing settling back to a normal rate. Suddenly Diarmuid was able to breathe normally as well, though he hadn't even realized he had stopped. He leaned over the bed, looking for signs of the Hound's full recovery.

Cú Chulainn, still exhausted and frail, gratefully reached up to his lover, wrapping his arms around his waist. Weak with relief, Diarmuid practically collapsed on top of him, instead controlling his fall to land softly beside his love.

“Thank you for saving me, love," Cú Chulainn whispered, voice hoarse. 

"I couldn't live with myself if I hadn't." Diarmuid looked him over wide-eyed, still remembering the feeling he had had when he thought Cú Chulainn was slipping away from him. Even now, he felt a shadow of that terror, fearful that the Hound might have a relapse.

Sensing Diarmuid's fears, Cú Chulainn shakily brought his face up to Diarmuid's and kissed his lover with all the remaining strength and energy he had left as if to reassure him that he really was still there and wouldn't be going anywhere soon. Diarmuid responded with the urgency of one who is not going to let what they love slip away ever again.

"I'm sorry for worrying you like that," Cú Chulainn breathed when they finally pulled apart.

Diarmuid thought back to all their previous adventures. "I've done that to you often enough, haven't I? So I guess I can’t complain."

Cú Chulainn shook his head smiling softly, "You're worth all those worries."

Diarmuid held him close and tight, silently promising never to worry his love again. Warm in his arms, the Hound of Ulster began to drift off. "Stay with me," he whispered softly.

"I won't go anywhere." Diarmuid promised, determined to keep his word until the end of time.

Exhausted from everything that had happened, Cú Chulainn fell asleep quickly, trusting Diarmuid completely to keep him safe throughout the night and all the nights to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, silver and salt are often portrayed as poisonous to the fey and are said to work as protection against their kind. 
> 
> *Jameson = A brand of Irish whiskey  
> *Unseelie Court = The realm of the bad fairies, tending to be malicious and vindictive
> 
> As always, we hope that enjoyed this chapter and are looking forward to the next one as much as we are! Get pumped for the final chapter, because it'll have everything from fluff to sexy times (XD) to something we worked really hard on making for you guys! See yah (hopefully) soon! <3
> 
> A quick update: We are working hard to get the next (and final) chapter up for you guys, but now that school's back in full swing, it's taking a bit longer than normal to work on. So please be patient with us! We want this last chapter to be as close to perfect as possible! At the absolute latest it'll be up at the end of October, but we're going to work hard to get it out (hopefully) before then! :)


	15. Wedding Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, our heroes' long list of problems seem far behind them, but when it comes time to pop the big question, will either be ready (or willing) to settle down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! It's finally here! The last chapter! Sorry this took WAY longer than expected. The combination of school and major writer's block made getting this last bit out extremely difficult (not to mention stressful!). As always, we hope you'll enjoy the final bit, as well as the accompanying artwork! As a final reminder, any words/phrases that are starred can be referenced in the end notes!

[](http://s1262.photobucket.com/user/jadewhiddon/media/9d3c357c-83ef-43f2-86f3-f86492d47f0d_zpsoblk8jk7.jpg.html)   
[](http://s1262.photobucket.com/user/jadewhiddon/media/33994a09-caa0-4631-9f0d-a5e6c52a97d4_zpsmfymspsa.jpg.html)

As the sun rose over the surrounding hills, bathing the sky in a soft, golden glow, Cú Chulainn opened his eyes to find himself fully invigorated. To his surprise, he felt no trace of the curse in his body, as if it had been as easily curable as the common cold. His lover, on the other hand, was completely passed out beside him, face planted firmly in the pillows. Smiling fondly, Cú Chulainn gently brushed Diarmuid’s perpetually tousled hair back from his eyes, softly murmuring, “He must have stayed up all night worrying about my sorry self.”  

At the Hound’s touch, gentle despite his hands’ rough callouses, Diarmuid stirred slightly, instinctively turning towards the featherlike contact. His quiet purring giving the illusion that he might be more awake than he seemed, the Hound playfully climbed on top of his lover, leaning down to place a quick peck on his cheek. “Morning, my beloved!”

Not quite energetic enough to match Cú Chulainn’s overabundance of enthusiasm, Diarmuid twisted to look up at him, blearily blinking the sleep away from his eyes. “H-hello to you too, sweetheart . . .”

Unperturbed by his lover’s drowsiness, the Hound continued layering tender kisses on Diarmuid’s face. “Do you want me to leave you be for a bit longer so you can get some sleep? I mean, it’ll be a challenge to stay away from you, but if I _must_ -”

“Quite the opposite,” Diarmuid purred, entire body awakening at the warm, loving sensation of Cú Chulainn’s lips. To Diarmuid, the taste of his lover’s lips was infinitely more potent than the addictively sweet elixirs of pure liquid caffeine they offered at the . . . _oh, what was it called again? Constellation Stag? Meteor Fawn? Ah! Starbucks!_

Said lips broke into a wide, brilliant smile as the Hound entwined their bodies beneath the covers. “If you insist.”

Diarmuid made a sound of contentment and wrapped his arms around Cú Chulainn, pulling the Hound even closer to him so as to maximize skin-on-skin contact. “It’s nice to see that you’re feeling so perky today.”

“It’s a real improvement from last night, that’s for certain. But can you guess why?”          

“Is it because you narrowly escaped death?”

“Well, that too, but guess again,” Cú Chulainn chuckled, urging Diarmuid on with a sharp bite to his earlobe.

“How about those devilishly good looks you were blessed with?”

The Ulster warrior responded with another nibble, this time just below his jawline, the motion a resounding “try again”.

“Alright, alright, I give! Tell me already!” Diarmuid gasped, his higher reason having a hard time even functioning, let alone providing a comprehensive response to his lover’s query.

Lips once again finding Diarmuid’s ear, the Hound huskily breathed, “It’s because today I ask you to help me find the nearest chapel where we can tie the knot.”

The suggestion triggered something primal within Diarmuid, causing him to flip them and eagerly seek out his lover’s lips. As his fingers slipped under the Hound’s clothes to trace intricate patterns on his skin, Diarmuid murmured sensually, “What kind of knot do you prefer? Square? Bowline? Double overhand?”

Predictably finding himself shivering at Diarmuid’s teasing touch (Cú Chulainn couldn’t fathom a single being- god or mortal alike- who could resist such a sensation), he gasped without thinking, “I’d let you tie me up with any number of those.”

"You sure we should be doing that in a church?" Diarmuid chuckled, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Like an uninvited and unwelcome house guest, a thought occurred to the Hound that made him grimace slightly despite his lover’s continuing touches. "Well, Kirei and Gilgamesh sure did."

Diarmuid stilled in his ministrations, wincing as if he had just witnessed something particularly unpleasant. "Can we not think about that? Especially when we’re in bed together?”

"Right. Egotistical maniacs and sadistic priests aren’t the sexiest of thoughts, huh,” Cú Chulainn said, blushing at his faux pas. However, before he could stammer out an apology and then proceed to kiss the image right out of both their minds, his lover slid off of him and stalked over to the general direction of the bathroom.

“Actually, you’ve reminded me that there’s something I should go do. Excuse me for a moment.”

As Cú Chulainn watched his lover’s retreating form, he mumbled to himself in frustration, "Way to be a complete buzzkill, you fecking idiot."

Diarmuid spent long enough in the shower (most likely washing the distasteful images from his mind) that the Hound had time enough to whip up a hearty, flavorful breakfast, consisting of French toast, country potatoes, and fresh, sizzling bacon. If anything, he hoped that the enticing aroma of a home cooked meal would be enough to coax his lover out of his retreat so that he could properly apologize. Gods above, why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut? He knew that he was more a man of action than of words, but he was never quite _this_ clumsy, especially when it came to his lovers. There was just something about Diarmuid, something that set his pulse racing and his mind moving a thousand miles a minute.

When he finally heard the bathroom door creak open, he turned just in time to see Diarmuid entering the room in dark suit pants that hugged his hips and a forest green button-down whose top few buttons had been left open. A slight flush painted his cheeks and his amber eyes shone brighter than the Hound could ever imagine, even in his most sensual daydreams. As if all of that wasn’t enticing enough, Diarmuid’s ebony hair was still soaking wet, dripping trails down his perfectly chiseled features and into the v-shaped opening at the top of his shirt. Every inch of him was arranged to be wholly alluring, capable of capturing the heart of any passing viewer, no matter how indifferent.

Stunned at the breathtaking sight, Cú Chulainn didn't even realize that the few remaining pieces of bacon left in his pan were beginning to get a little extra crispy. Instead, his mouth dropped open and he had to restrain himself from rushing forward to follow the traces of water with his lips and tongue. Gods, how he wanted to map out every inch of him, kiss and nibble and lick until-

“This is the nicest outfit I have, so I was thinking it might be suitable if you really want to. . . you know. . . Like you were suggesting?” Diarmuid asked, effectively breaking the Hound out of his reverie. He tossed his suit jacket, inlaid with a silken, emerald-colored fabric and just a hint of gold stitching, onto the bed before heading into the kitchenette to face the Hound. “If you can drag yourself away from that hot meat you’ve got there, that is. Or were you planning on making a burnt offering?”

Trying to catch his mind up to his mouth before he spoke, Cú Chulainn stammered, “Y-you mean you really would want to get married? _Toda_ y? I mean, earlier, I was- that is- I thought- Are you sure?”

“Nothing could possibly make me happier. Believe me when I say that I want this. That I want _you_.” Diarmuid gazed into his eyes earnestly, trying to grab the Hound’s hand until he realized Cú Chulainn was still clutching the spatula with a grip strong enough to split the plastic handle. “Well, I guess it can wait until after breakfast. I wouldn’t want to turn down such a delicious meal. Especially since it’s from you,” he winked.

The Hound immediately sprung into action, serving a hearty portion of everything in a rush to get to their promised nuptials. “Right! Breakfast! I made you fried bread and potatoes and- you know what? I’ll just stop running my mouth and let you eat.”

Diarmuid chuckled at his haste, but agreeably sat down at the table, pulling Cú Chulainn onto his lap as soon as he was within arm’s reach. “It looks nearly as delicious as you do. Nearly. Now, unless you want me to get food on my suit, I suppose you’d better feed me.”

More than ready to get going, the Ulster warrior lifted forkful after forkful of food up to Diarmuid’s lips, trying not to get too distracted by the way his lover moaned softly after each bite. Diarmuid, on the other hand, was attempting to savor the perfectly melded flavors for as long as he possibly could without offending the Hound’s sensibilities. At least, not _too_ much. After all, he was a tease, not a menace.

The instant that he deemed his lover to be full, Cú Chulainn leapt off his lap, yelling something about leaving the dishes in the sink as he dashed off to the bathroom to get himself ready.

After a quick shower (a cold one at that), the Hound dressed in a suit that was similar to Diarmuid’s, save a pale blue dress shirt that complimented his hair. After blow-drying said hair and tying it back several times over until he was vaguely satisfied with it, he nervously exited the bathroom. “Is this alright? I know I can’t compare to you, but-“

Diarmuid cut him off by striding across the room and spinning him into a passionate kiss. “What do you mean ‘can’t compare’? You outshine even the gods themselves!”

Blushing slighting, the Ulster warrior raised an eyebrow deftly. “You would know?”

“Of course! Need I remind you that I was raised by one*? But enough about that! You mentioned something earlier about making things official, no?”

"Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, the longer I have to spend not being your husband, the less sex you’re going to get later tonight," the Hound chuckled, knowing that his threat held no real weight.

“As Fianna’s most renowned lover, I sure as Lugh* can’t let that happen, now can I?” Diarmuid smiled, eagerly taking his fiance’s hand and pulling him out the door.

* * * * *

The chapel was everything Diarmuid hoped it’d be, the kind of building he’d dreamed of ever since his father* had first told him how wondrous the gift of marriage was. It was small, yet undeniably charming with its weathered stone facade and stained glass windows. Surrounded by trees and overgrown with ivy, it served as a quiet haven for a whole menagerie of forest creatures. Due to the church’s petite nature, they were able to find the priest within minutes. After explaining their intent, the holy man had paused, but ultimately decided that he wasn’t going to say no to two men who nearly doubled him in stature. Besides, they had looked so eager, so in love, that it almost seemed blasphemous _not_ to wed them. However, when he asked who was willing to stand witness, the duo froze. Why hadn’t they thought of such? And even if they did, who would they turn to? It’s not like either of them had made friends over the course of their journey together.

“I don’t . . . We didn’t . . . It looks like we’ll just have to come back at a later time, dearheart . . .” Diarmuid said, disappointment evident in every aspect of his body.

The priest frowned for a few moments, thinking. Then: “I believe the maintenence man is here today. With your permission, I’d be more than happy to ask if he’d be willing to stand in.”

“Gods above, that would be wonderful! I mean . . . Yes. Please. Bless you, Father.” Diarmuid blushed, briefly squeezing his fiancé’s hand.

The priest nodded minutely and shuffled over to a darkened cove towards the back of the church. It felt like nearly an eternity before he returned, a man clad in worn denim in tow. “He says he’d be happy to help. Are you lads ready?”

Bristling with nervous anticipation, the two knights moved to stand in front of the alter, looking into each other’s eyes as the priest began introducing the vows that would bind their lives together until eternity. From that point, the ceremony passed in a blissful blur, all leading up to the one line they oh so desperately longed to hear: “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wif- er . . . Husband and husband? Married. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you married.”

The two kissed each other passionately to seal the deal, pure joy radiating from both of them. The priest let them enjoy their moment before bringing over the papers for them to sign and make it official in the eyes of the law. Diarmuid scribbled his signature, barely able to tear his gaze away from his newly-christened husband as the Hound filled out the rest of the paperwork.

Once the last line was filled in, Cú Chulainn turned to his husband. “Where to now, love?”

“I think an extended honeymoon is in order. Just you, me, and a nice, warm bed. That’s all we’ll need.”

The Ulster Warrior grinned wolfishly. “You know I’ll go anywhere and everywhere as long as it’s with you.”

Without any particular plan in mind, they got back into the car to head off on their next adventure, driving down the coastal roads to take in the scenery. As they cruised, Diarmuid teased Cú Chulainn mercilessly with his plans for their wedding night until the Hound was flushed and breathless, practically ready to pull over and take his husband in the back seat. However, he managed to make it to a small, comfortable looking B&B, darting inside to rent the best room available.

When he returned to fetch his husband, he waved their room key with a brilliant smile, “This time we’re going to actually use it as a bridal suite!”

“As long as we get to use it for its intended purpose, it sounds perfect to me,” Diarmuid purred sultrily, slinking out of the car to wind himself around the Ulster warrior.

With Diarmuid clinging to him so tightly, providing a most welcome distraction, Cú Chulainn struggled to get the key in the lock. More than anything, he longed to rush inside and feel the warmth of his husband’s naked body on his own, but the longer he fumbled with the fecking thing, the more aware he became of his body pressing up against Diarmuid’s own, as well as the Fianna knight’s hands trailing over every inch of his (unfortunately) clothed body. _Gods, why did they he still have them on? Why did they even wear clothes? Perhaps they should throw out every article they had and just-_

With a soft click, the door _finally_ burst open, causing both men to practically fall into the room. Using their momentum to his advantage, Cú Chulainn slammed his husband up against the nearest wall so he could give him a hard, forceful kiss.

Without skipping a beat, Diarmuid slid his tongue between the Hound’s lips, simultaneously knotting his fingers through Cú Chulainn’s hair to hold his husband in place. The kiss was sweet and passionate, chaste and ferocious, and everything else in between. If the Hound hadn’t a need for oxygen, he would’ve kissed Diarmuid until the universe collapsed around them. Or the manager kicked them out. Whichever happened first. As he pulled away, gasping for air like a drowning man, the Hound was startled to realize that his hair band had been removed, allowing his blue locks to tumble freely over his shoulders. “You really like that, don't you?”he asked breathlessly, already looking thoroughly disheveled.

Diarmuid gently tugged at the soft strands, staring into his husband’s eyes with burning intensity, “Oh, I do, baby. Your hair is just. So. Damn. Sexy.”

“Everything about you is sexy,” the Hound growled, pressing their hips together so Diarmuid could feel just how sexy he really found him.

“Yeah? And what're you gonna do about it?” Diarmuid purred, deftly sliding a hand down to Cú Chulainn’s lower body.

Before he could continue his exploration, however, Cú Chulainn tackled him to the bed, pinning him firmly in place. Diarmuid squeaked at the unexpected maneuver, instinctively wrapping his arms and legs around his husband.

Their bodies entwined, the newly weds laughingly rolled around in the sheets, each fighting for the upper hand. Whether it came to the battlefield or the bedroom, neither were willing to back down. Impatient to escalate things, Diarmuid began stripping his husband, appreciatively caressing Cú Chulainn’s powerful chest muscles with his hands and mouth.

Never one to lose in the intensity department, the Hound ripped Diarmuid’s shirt off with his teeth, the buttons clattering on the hardwood floor. Caught up in the fervor of the moment, Diarmuid immediately lowered himself to lick and tease the skin right above Cú Chulainn’s waistband as he unbuttoned the Hound’s pants and let a hand dive inside.

Gasping at the pure desire coursing through his veins, the Hound pulled Diarmuid back up to his face, gazing up in adoration as he removed the rest of the clothing that was separating them. “Godsdamn, that is a sight I could _never_ forget.”

“And this right here,” Diarmuid traced patterns all over Cú Chulainn's body, “is something I could never grow tired of.”

Ducking his head to hide a blush, the Hound turned his attention towards the event they were supposed to be celebrating. “Then what would you like to do with it to celebrate our wedding night?”

Diarmuid pressed their bodies together, shivering as they finally made full body contact. “How adventurous are you in the bedroom?”

Cú Chulainn’s hands drifted to Diarmuid’s firm bottom. “With you, I’ll try anything.”

“What about something that will be painful at first? You know-the way couples like us generally go at it?” Diarmuid asked, watching Cú Chulainn’s eyes carefully for any indication that the Hound was uncomfortable with the concept.

Cú Chulainn immediately flushed, “Y-you mean . . . ?”

Slightly shaken by Cú Chulainn’s obvious uncertainty, Diarmuid nodded slowly. “There are plenty of other things we can do if you’re not up for it.”

After the briefest hesitation, the Hound shook his head, “I'm always willing to try something at least once.”

Diarmuid gently parted Cú Chulainn’s legs, “Then . . . may I?”

“Y-yeah.” The Hound lay back, completely unsure of what to expect as Diarmuid’s fingers reached down to prepare him. Curious, he propped himself up so he could see what was happening. “W-well! T-that's . . . different.”

“You haven't seen anything yet, sweetheart.” Diarmuid promised, pressing Cú Chulainn back down into the bed.

The Hound nodded weakly, head falling back into the plethora of pillows, still not certain how he felt about these new sensations. Diarmuid sensed his uneasiness and more uncertainly pressed their bodies together. “Do you think you’re ready to get this started?”

The sensation of Diarmuid’s ready, eager arousal rubbing against Cú Chulainn convinced the Hound to give it a chance. “I-I think so.”

“You can tell me to stop at any time.” Diarmuid reassured him as he gratefully began sliding himself into his husband. The instant that the Hound felt the sharp pain, he cried out, gripping Diarmuid’s shoulders tightly enough to leave bruises.

Diarmuid moaned at the combination of pleasure and pain that he, himself was feeling, moving his hips smoothly against his husband in an attempt to transmit those sensations to the Hound.

Despite his efforts, Cú Chulainn didn’t respond much, even as the famed lover leaned down to kiss his lips softly. Eventually, he whispered, “I-I don’t quite see the appeal . . . yet . . .”

Knowing exactly how to make his lover feel the pleasure, Diarmuid almost completely removed himself before thrusting forcefully into his Hound, seeking out Cú Chulainn’s sensitive spot. Targeting the perfect area right off, he immediately saw the results as Cú Chulainn screamed, arching his back off the bed. Letting out a victorious cry, Diarmuid moved his hips rhythmically, sending constant spikes of pleasure up Cú Chulainn’s spine even as Diarmuid was getting closer to his own climax.

Lost in the pure bliss of being within his husband, Diarmuid put everything he had into his thrusts, crying out as Cú Chulainn scraped his nails down his back. Feeling how close Diarmuid was getting, the Hound gasped in anticipation, digging his nails into his husband’s hips. With just a quick twist of his hips, Cú Chulainn had Diarmuid exploding inside of him, throwing his head back to scream.

Diarmuid gradually slid out of his husband, face still morphed into an expression of pure ecstasy, a look that the Hound instantly etched into his memory. In fact, he was so absorbed in watching Diarmuid’s expression that he almost didn’t register Diarmuid’s quiet question, “H-how would you like t-to finish off?”

Without any hesitation, the Hound knew his request, “M-may I . . . give it a try?”

Diarmuid smiled at Cú Chulainn’s shy request. “Of course, my love. Make me feel you.” As he spoke, the Fianna lover gracefully spread himself out on the bed in an enticing position, spreading his whole body wide open for his husband’s advances.

The Hound scanned his body ravenously, so tempted by Diarmuid’s allure that he didn’t know where to start. “H-how should I . . . ?”

Diarmuid took Cú Chulainn’s hands in his, guiding the Hound’s rough, callused hands to his lower body. “Let me show you how to prepare me.” The lover guided him sweetly before letting Cú Chulainn take full control.

“T-this feel good, love?” The Hound purred, doing his best to emulate what he thought Diarmuid would do.

“Perfect, darling,” Diarmuid moaned, clearly indicating that he wanted more.

Cú Chulainn blushed, pleased that he was off to a good start. “What now? H-how do I make you scream?”

Diarmuid reached between the Hound’s legs, stroking gently. “You feel the ache right here? The desire? Drive it into me! Make me feel your want!”

Riled up by his husband’s words, Cú Chulainn growled low in his throat, wasting no  more time in lining up their hips and thrusting deeply into his lover. The force of his initial drive made Diarmuid gasp, crying out loudly, “My Hound! Take me!”

Spurred on by Diarmuid’s wanton cries of his pet name, the Hound made furious love to him, quickly realizing how Diarmuid liked it: hard and deep. He grabbed onto the headboard, using the extra leverage to drive so deep into Diarmuid that the experienced lover saw stars.

Screaming his pure adoration for the Hound, Diarmuid pressed his body flush against his husband, caressing the soft, flushed skin. Grabbing Cú Chulainn’s bottom, Diarmuid hissed softly, “Come for me!”

That little whisper was all it took, and Cú Chulainn was coming inside his husband, burying his face in Diarmuid’s shoulder. “D-damn! I love you so much!”

“I love you too, my husband!” Diarmuid beamed, gazing at his Hound adoringly. “And if I have my way, I’ll be loving you so much you won’t get a moment of sleep tonight.”

Chuckling, Cú Chulainn kissed his husband lightly. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * * * *

Much later, while the two knights laid in each other’s arms, exhausted and satiated (at least temporarily) Diarmuid mused softly, “I didn’t need them. My lances, that is.”

Startled by the seemingly out of the blue declaration, Cú Chulainn propped himself up on his elbows, looking at his husband curiously. “Don’t need them? What do you mean?”

“To be a man. A knight. Someone who can be proud of the life he’s lived. Of the life ahead of him.”

“Yeah? Then what did you need? Potatoes? A lap dance? Or how about a-”

The Fianna knight followed his husband, breath warm on his face. “You. I needed you.”

“You’re a sap, you know that, right?” the Ulster warrior chuckled breathlessly.

“Yes, but I’m _your_ sap.”  
  
“That you are,” the Hound grinned, leaning in to brush their lips together.

[](http://s1262.photobucket.com/user/jadewhiddon/media/ef60c902-668f-4a0f-aa43-bad94433d9dc_zpskhvugegy.jpg.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In Irish mythology, Diarmuid was given up by his true father, Donn, to be raised by Aengus Óg  
> *Lugh, another Celtic mythological figure, is the god of a whole host of domains (sun, storm, sky, etc.) as well as Cú Chulainn's birth father  
> *Here, Diarmuid is referring to his foster father, Aengus Óg, as his real father. It should be noted that Aengus Óg is the god of love and youth
> 
> Wow! You're still here? XD Thanks for coming on this adventure with us (as well as our two favorite knights)! We hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it and hearing from you guys! We have outlines for a sequel, so we hope to see you sometime in the future! For now, thanks for everything! 
> 
> With love,  
> Psychoctopus <3


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